Humpty Dumpty
by bravefan
Summary: McGuire tries to put the team back together again after the bombing on the beach in Episode 1.
1. Chapter 1

The silence was uncomfortable. Out of place and unwelcome in their normally boisterous home quarters. The metal structure usually echoed the slightest sound, exaggerating all the laughs, the periodic clanging of the weights, and the familiar sounds of tactical equipment being cleaned and prepared.

It was never quiet like this.

Even in the middle of the night there was a steady drone of breathing (and snoring) and the occasional rattle of someone shifting on their bunk.

Tonight they had trudged in from the beach, battered and bruised and broken. No words spoken. Everyone trapped in their own minds, trying to make sense of how a good natured game of soccer had ended in fire, blood and death. All things that they were very familiar with on a mission.

But this had been off duty...this had been personal, and God, there had been kids there.

The continued silence haunted him, bringing him back to the moment right after the bomb went off. Pushing himself off the wet sand and trying to make sense of what happened. It had been like someone had pushed a mute button on the world. His hearing temporarily stunned by the concussive force. The medic's eyes had worked overtime trying to process the chaos in front of him, the injured people, the crashing waves, the smoke, the frenzied movement, the beach umbrellas burning. The lack of sound making it all seem almost surreal, as if this hadn't really just happened, like he was watching it from a far. But then his hearing had kicked back in a sudden rush of noise and the shouts and screams had broken the spell. There was no more denying the reality he was suddenly thrust back into.

His training had kicked in and he was up and moving towards the screams, a reaction as deeply ingrained in him as his own name. He had triaged as best he could with no supplies, not even a shirt or some extra fabric to work with. Finding a small piece of relief each time he passed a team member upright and working to coordinate the response, their actions automatic too. He checked them off one by one breathing a little easier with each sighting and making mental notes of things to treat later, once the criticals were taken care of.

He supposed later was now. It was as good a time as any to check in on everyone and see what ails they were hiding. Sorry, " what they had forgotten to tell him about."

It was a fine line he was always walking. Everyone needed a little time to decompress after a mission, nevermind whatever the hell tonight was. A hot shower, a bite of food and even his most stubborn patients were usually much more amenable to treatment. So he had learned to wait a while. Unfortunately with this group you could never completely trust that there wasn't anything serious being "forgotten' about, so he had to strike the right balance of giving space while still doing his job.

He started with the easiest. Admittedly taking the path of least resistance right off the bat.

Preach hadn't moved from where he sat when they came in. The man was parked stiffly at the table gaze transfixed on the phone he was slowly rotating in his hands.

On any other day where they were on the base the man would have checked in with his family by now as was his nightly routine but it appeared he wasn't ready to make that call right now.

To his credit Preach sat still, allowing McG to examine and clean his head wound without any fuss. Tilting his head when asked and responding to McG's questions with quiet one word answers.

"Headache?" ….. "No"

"Dizzyness?" ….. "No"

"Light sensitivity?" - ….. "No"

"Nausea?" ….. "No"

Preach was about as close as McG got to an ideal patient around these parts. Not that the bar was particularly high when you were using Dalton and Jaz as measuring sticks. Top was liable to keel over before he admitted he was injured whereas Jaz was downright ornery when she was hurting.

He clicked his flashlight off, satisfied that Preach didn't have a concussion. Head wounds always bled like a bitch so the actual gash on his eyebrow wasn't as bad as the amount of blood had suggested. It was close to needing stitches but they could probably get by without. McG applied a few steri-strips, satisfied with their hold on the two edges of skin and made a mental note to check again in a few days to re-evaluate.

Pushing up from the table he hesitated for a second, not quite satisfied with the man's well being quite yet.

"You gonna call your family?"

Preach gave him a tired smile..."Soon as my ears stop ringing".

McG headed down the hallway and knocked on Amir's door waiting until he heard a subdued "enter." He cracked open the door slowly unsure of what he would find. He wasn't quite sure what to expect with Amir yet. The former spy had let him stitch his cut easily enough as they returned from Syria so maybe he wouldn't be as bad as some of the others. But then again, Amir had also been the one to demand he be cut up to sell his cover in the first place. That didn't exactly bode well for the prospects of valuing his own health.

The medic's eyes adjusted to the dim lighting and he found Amir sprawled on the bed, evidently trying for an air of nonchalance for his would be visitor. When the spy caught sight of who it was his face hardened and he attempted to forestall the obvious reason for the visit with an "I'm fine"

McG resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Yup, Amir was going to fit in just fine around here.

"Great, this will be quick then." he bit out with forced cheeriness.

Surprisingly, it was actually a fairly accurate self-assessment though. Amir seemed to have escaped practically unscathed give or take a few minor abrasions. With closer inspection, they appeared to be more sand rash from hitting the deck hard rather than from the explosion and he was satisfied none of them needed any additional treatment. A few other basic checks , pulse, pupils, blood pressure and he was done. The man would undoubtedly have a few bruises in the morning but physically he was no worse for wear.

Mentally though, that might be a different story. McG wouldn't even pretend to know what was going on in the former spy's head right now. The man's tense body was emanating palpable rage, and his eyes were a gateway to a whole lot of other turbulent emotions that McG couldn't interpret. Dealing with that was well beyond his expertise. With some of the others he might have tried to help but his newest teammate was still too much of an unsolved puzzle at this point. He was sure the higher ups would have shrinks descending on them in the coming days and he would let the professionals delve into that unchartered territory.

"Alright, I'll leave you in peace" He just barely caught the quiet "thanks" before the door clicked shut leaving the former spy to process in solitude.

As he headed back to the kitchen he braced himself. Jaz or Dalton... Pick your poison.

Dalton was at least easy to locate, tipping the scale in his favor. He was sitting at his desk in the common area, staring at paperwork that looked just as suspiciously empty as when McG had last seen it. Hell the man didn't even have a pen in his hands, and even worse didn't even seem to realize that problem.

The computer chimed its familiar alert and everyone in the room stiffened, not quite ready to deal with the world right now. Dalton's head turned to look at the computer beside him but instead of keying in the passcode, he stared at it as it continued to sound. He rose slowly before suddenly turning resolutely on his heel and leaving the bunker with determined strides. The door to the yard crashed shut behind him, its metallic sound obnoxiously loud in the hushed room. Preach's eyes flickered with concern as he watched the man go but he dutifully moved towards the desk to respond to the call. McG took the reprieve, even more determined to catch up to wherever Top had escaped to and check on the man's well being.

Dalton hadn't gone far. He sat on the ground leaning back against the metal siding of the hut, maybe 10 feet from the door. It seemed that even when he wanted to escape he still couldn't bring himself to go far from his team.

McG stood for a moment, waiting for the man to acknowledge his presence. He shuffled his feet and loudly shifted his bag of supplies but Tops face remained expressionless, his haunted eyes staring unseeingly into the dark night.

He gave up on subtle and got on with it, crouching down next Dalton he asked "You want to make this easy on me and tell me what needs looking at?"

Apparently not.

McG reached out and held his fingers to the man's wrist, feeling a steady pulse that reassured him the lack of responsiveness wasn't injury induced.

Okay, so nothing life threatening. That was a start. But he was pretty sure he had seen some redness on Adam's back when he had passed by him earlier on the beach. It had stuck in his mind because Top had been the one teammate McG hadnt been able to find for a while. He had been relieved when he finally recognized Top's voice yelling into the sat phone coordinating with DC even before he came around from behind the burning truck. Dalton had been playing soccer shirtless when they fled meaning his skin had had little protection from the blast. Lifting the back of Top's shirt he grimaced, yahtzee.

"Come on man, we've talked about telling me about injuries…..."

His second attempt at conversation fell just as flat.

Dalton was a pretty good fit for the strong and silent cliche at the best of times. He listened, observed, and let others do most of the talking up until the point where his opinion or direction was truly needed.

But this was a whole new level of quiet though. The man seemed to have just shut down completely. It was something McG hadn't seen before. After a tough mission Top was usually their rock, debriefing or distracting them as the situation required. Even post Elijah hadn't been like this. Hell, their leader had been a one man manic cheer squad, determined to keep everyone doing activities, extra training, playing games, going for workouts all so as not to have time to dwell on the loss.

Leaning in closer he stuck his flashlight in his teeth to free up his hands to get a better redness started just above Dalton's waist and travelled upwards, reaching up for his shoulder on the left side. Looked like mostly first degree thankfully. But there was a small area on the lower back that seemed to have taken the worst of it and was likely second degree.

He peeled open and applied a burn dressing sheet from his kit to the part that was blistering, and felt a slight flinch away from the treatment. Huh, the statue lived.

"I'll need to change this tomorrow. No lifting, running or doing anything that will stretch that skin for a couple days" ….. Again no response.

" and don't stay out in the cold too long okay?... ADAM!"

It came out harsher than he intended, frustration, exhaustion and concern all fueling some extra volume. He wasn't leaving til he got some sort of response from the man.

Whether it was the tone, or the unusual use of his first name, he finally got a nod from Top.

He would take it, even if Dalton's gaze was still a hundred miles away. He sighed and headed back in, leaving the man to brood in peace.

As he re-entered the hangar Preach's head came up from the book he was reading on the couch, evidently finished with the call.

"Anything important?" McG was curious what they had wanted, maybe there was some information on who had done this.

"Nah, just a basic update - nothing new intel wise."

McG often found himself wondering if Preach read minds. The man was scarily insightful sometimes.

"What were the final numbers?" McG both wanted and didn't want to know.

"Things are still settling"

"Preach?" - the man was a terrible liar

A long pause but Preach eventually gave in " 4 dead, 21 injured, a couple are still critical"

The sudden wave of anger crashed through his well constructed defenced. Breaching the barricades and overrunning his senses instantaneously. It took a conscious effort to breathe through it and he desperately felt the need to make his hands busy with something before they followed through on their desire to destroy something.

Another deep breathe and he resolved to go find Jaz, trying to check on her would likely involve a verbal sparring match that would keep him busy for a while. There was also the slight problem of figuring out where she had gotten to. He hadn't seen her in the common area since they arrived back so he went down the hallways and checked her quarters - no joy. No luck in any of the bathrooms. Where the hell was that sneaky ninja.

The nickname sparked an idea and he ventured out of their bunker and crossed to the base gym where sure enough he found the sniper working over a punching bag. She jabbed rapid fire at the bag before breaking away, circling with intense concentration and re-attacking with a fierce series of punches. From the tell-tale sweat marks on her grey army t-shirt she had been at this a while. He watched the bag swing again and his eyes finally tracked her rapidly moving hands when she finally paused to catch the swinging bag so she could go again.

The idiot wasn't wearing any gloves.

She hadn't even wrapped her hands and had been attacking the bag with bare knuckles for God knows how long. He had the urge to punch something right now for a completely different reason. Boxing was actually a pretty healthy outlet ASSUMING YOU HAD GLOVES ON.

"Jaz!"

She ignored the call, lashing out at the bag with renewed ferocity.

"Khan!"

Ignored again. This was really getting to be a theme tonight. A guy could get a complex.

He grimaced, knowing the reaction that he would get, before striding forward and catching her arm on the back swing. It was instantaneous, her other elbow swung backwards at him, while her captured wrist tried to violently twist out of his hold. Turning on him fully she lashed out attmepting to break his hold and regain space but he held firm absorbing the strikes with patience. She pushed in closer jabbing her fury into his stomach with an inarticulate cry. She wasn't pulling her punches and he was grateful that the strikes were softened by the proximity and her exhaustion. He continued to pull her in tighter and she finally gave in, collapsing into his chest, where her shoulders quivered for a few seconds before finally releasing their tension. His arms moved from restraining and self protection and wrapped more reassuringly around her. Putting his chin down on top of her head in a gesture that exaggerated the height difference and normally made her laugh.

There was quiet for a second until she finally spat out

"There were kids there for fucks sake"

"I know"

"What the hell is wrong with them?"

He didn't have an answer for that one, shaking his head on top of hers as she pressed further into his chest.

Finally she regained composure and he braved broaching the reason he had come out there.

"Come on there is a pot of strong coffee calling your name and then I'm gonna look and see what damage you did to those hands."

She rolled her eyes, detangled from his arms and going to pick up her discarded sweatshirt.

He gave an exaggerated sniff, "but first Jazzie…. I'm going to recommend a shower"

He wasn't at all surprised when the piece of clothing collided with the back of his head. The girl had good aim after all.

30 minutes later and she begrudgingly exited the shower and joined him in the kitchen following the scent of the fresh pot of coffee like tracking hound. He poured a cup, held it out to her before teasingly withdrawing it … "after I see the hands."

It wasn't his first rodeo after all.

One finger was clearly still functional because she gave him a distinctive hand gesture sitting down at the table with a huff.

He continued teasing and baiting her as he worked trying to keep the mood light and the sniper distracted. She had really done a number on her knuckles and they were bloody and bruised, but so far nothing some polysporin and bandages couldn't cure.

She flinched when he reached two particularly colourful fingers and turned away from his reproachful gaze that questioned her sanity. The two fingers were pretty clearly broken, if he had to bet, most likely from repeatedly pulverising the bag.

She turned back and stared at him definitely, daring him to call her on it. He sighed, took a long slow breath, before throwing her a white flag "looks like you landed hard on these at the beach".

He would give her the benefit of the doubt. It technically _could_ have happened in the explosion after all and that explanation would raise less eyebrows when he filled out the after action injury reports. He splinted them for now, but X-rays would be on tomorrow's agenda in order to make sure they were set to heal properly.

He handed her the still steaming mug of coffee, signalling the end of his exam and she happily leapt away from the table to go to her regular kitchen perch to the left of the counter. Conveniently nice and close to the coffee pot for an anticipated refill. By all rights she shouldn't be drinking coffee at this time in the evening but good luck to anyone who made that suggestion to her. He was an army medic serving in an elite special forces unit who had a good 8 inches and 100 lbs on her and he certainly wasn't brave enough to do so.

Finally done with his rounds he stowed his medical gear on the equipment racks and parked himself on a recliner throwing an arm up over his eyes to dim the lights. He really just wanted to crawl into bed but he couldn't bring himself to head to his quarters quite yet. He wasn't sure if he was ready to be alone with his thoughts. He felt like trying to sleep right now would be a fruitless and frustrating venture. That said he wasn't opposed if his eyes were to drift shut here for a bit.

He absently rubbed his wrist trying to massage out the pain that had lingered since the blast. To be honest he wasn't even really sure how exactly he had done it, best guess was a not so graceful landing when the blast had knocked him off his feet. It was still functional enough and he didn't think anything was broken, but it had certainly been an annoyance that hampered his movements throughout the evening. He would X-ray it to be sure tomorrow when he dragged Jaz to the base hospital but it was most likely just some ligament/tendon damage that would heal itself if given some time and rest.

The door to the yard crashed open and Dalton entered clumsily carrying something in his arms and using his back to prop the door open. McG winced at the sight and rolled his eyes in exasperation just about to chide Adam for disregarding all his instructions when he recognized Patton in his arms.

McG felt like a horrible human being for saying it but he had completely forgotten that Top's dog had followed them to the beach earlier. He must have scattered after the bomb and had made his way back on his own to the place he apparently now considered home.

Dalton placed Patton down gently and looked desperately at McG for help. It was quickly apparent that the dog was only putting weight on one of his front legs and it gave a soft whine at all the movement and jostling. Top looked panicked at the sound and was murmuring reassuringly to the dog trying to calm it. It was the first sign of emotion he'd seen Dalton' show all night.

"Awww come on Top, I'm not a vet…." He broke off at the puppy dog eyes he was being shot, and not by the dog either.

The rest of the team turned to look at him as well. Concern written on their faces as well despite the fact that they all normally claimed it was only top's dog and made sure to tease Dalton about the hassle of keeping him on a regular basis. Jaz moved in closer and began stroking the dog reassuringly while Preach fetched him his usual bowl filled with water. Even Amir had ventured out from his quarters curious about the commotion and was now theorizing what was wrong with the leg.

He made a mental note to tease them all mercilessly about this later before sadly leaving the comfort of the recliner and fetching his gear again. The poor dog did look a little rough around the edges so he really should check and make sure it was nothing serious.

10 minutes later he managed to calm the herd and had done his best vet impression determining there was nothing life threatening. The dog matched his owner with a fairly serious burn although the fur seemed to have helped prevent too much damage. He did his best to wrap the leg, mostly with the goal of keeping it clean while it healed. Ironically the dog might have been his most cooperative patient of the night holding perfectly still while he worked. He had made damn sure to point out that fact to the rest of the team and a few of them had looked suitably abashed.

He re-settled into the recliner as the exhaustion of the day finally caught up with him. His arm was aching considerably more as the evening wore on and if he was anyone else he would be giving them shit for not having put ice on it. That said, the freezer just seemed so far away at this moment. Maybe he would grab one in a bit when he finally motivated himself to make the not very long but seemingly very far walk to his bedroom.

"Thanks Dr. Doolittle". He opened his eyes to see Top holding out an ice pack and glancing meaningfully at the wrist McG hadn't realized he was rubbing. He reached up with his good arm to grab the sack of ice but Dalton held on for an extra second forcing McG to meet his gaze.

'No really, thank you' his head tilted to where the team sat around the dog.

On the surface he could have been referring to the dog and the fancy bandage job McG had done more to assuage the people than Patton. But it rang with a deeper sincerity and appreciation for taking care of the individuals clustered around the dog when Dalton hadn't been able to. Typical Top doublespeak. Combine that with the freaky perceptiveness about McG's wrist and he had a feeling Dalton had pulled back from whatever dark place he had been and was at somewhat back on his game.

McG smiled as he watched Adam return back and begin working the room. Teasing Jaz about her coffee intake, asking Preach what type of hippie brainwashing he was reading, even going as far as to trash talk Amir's soccer skills claiming he had drone footage that the goal scored earlier should have been offside. He felt a weight lift off his shoulders and he finally began to feel like they were on the right track. They would all move on, its what they had to do in this business. But tonight they would lick their wounds and lean on each other and wait to see what the new day brought.


	2. Chapter 2 - Moscow Rules

So after I beat up on McG a bit in my other fanfic I realized that we just needed a little bit more of him in action. Aiming to do a oneshot per episode where medic McG has to put his skills to work to take care of the team.

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 _Mortem two you are clear of threats, but not for long._

 _Recommend immediate dustoff._

McG leans forward as much as he can without taking the pressure off the fresh bandage he is holding tight to Cassie's stomach. He cranes his neck to look out the open helicopter door, searching the darkness for signs of their missing team members. He can't really see much from here but the wetness under his fingers keeps him in his seat. Their trip to the chopper seems to have undone most of his handiwork and there is more red on the gauze than he was hoping for. The blood transfusion should be enough to tide her over til they get back assuming he can keep this new bleeding under control and assuming they get this show on the road soon.

What is taking them so long?

Top had planned to be only a few seconds behind if their timing was right.

Apparently it wasn't right… or something had gone very wrong. His brain helpfully supplied the last part even as he tried to stay optimistic.

 _Mortem 2..._

This was getting close to being a problem.

They can't sit here forever. They know full well that the distraction will only hold so long until the trucks begin circling back to the chopper's location. Hell, it may have already stopped working judging by the increasingly desperate tones in his ear.

So where the hell are they.

 _MORTEM 2.._.

It's so loud this time he flinches slightly and then has to murmur an apology when Cassie shifts uncomfortably under his hands.

He watches Jaz out of the corner of his eye.

She is steadfastly ignoring her earpiece. They both know what command wants, it's just not a decision either of them are willing to make right now.

Jaz turns from her post and catches him looking. He can see the wheels turning rapidly as she considers options. Finally the gears stop and the anxiety in her face vanishes. Its replaced by a serene look that is both resigned and determined.

Decision made.

She meets his gaze and moves to grasp the door handle. He is confused by the hint of apology he sees in her face and even more surprised that she is giving in so easily.

When the door starts to close and her two feet are still solidly on Ukrainian soil her plan suddenly becomes crystal clear.

"Jesus Jaz"

Surprise turns to exasperation and he is halfway out of his seat, intent on dragging her ass inside the chopper if he has to, when Cassie's voice distracts him.

"There they are!"

Amir takes a break from watching the far side of landing strip and raises an eyebrow at him. It's only about the 15th time today they've been impressed by the CIA operative today. Pale as a ghost and barely conscious, she has still managed to spot the movement in the distance before any of them could. He gives Amir a grin in return, able to relax a bit more now that he knows the chopper won't be leaving two men short.

Preach is leading the way with Dalton a step behind bringing up the rear. Top pauses before he clambors aboard.

"Did you see the signal?" he demands jokingly with a wry smile.

Jaz rolls her eyes and scoffs at the dark humour and McG shares her sentiment. She slams the door shut with a little extra force and this time she is on the right side of it.

The bird rises up in the air. The noise of the blades steals any opportunity for any retort they might have chosen to make. Instead they sit in their seats tense and quiet, acutely aware of the how the last chopper fared against the Russian firepower.

They climb, and climb and then finally Noah's voice brings welcome news.

 _Mortem two you are clear of 50 cal range_.

Now, they settle back into their seats, fingers loosening on their guns and on the straps. There are shared grins all around, appreciating their escape from yet another tight squeeze.

He turns back to Cassie. Ready to check another round of vitals and maybe hook up some fluids now that they will be stationary for a few minutes.

Very shortly McG is the only one left awake. He is satisfied with Cassie's vitals, just not satisfied enough to join his teammates. It's a fairly short trip back compared to most of their transport times. It had been under two hours from receiving the initial call to arriving on scene in Sverdlovsk. He can stand watch a little longer, it's what he signed up for.

It's a short and bumpy ride back to meet the C-130.

This omega team is filled with true professionals though.

They can sack out within moments in any situation. Cramped car, dirty floor, busy room, noisy chopper… it doesn't matter. Not when you have been running on adrenaline for the past couple days straight and the mission is finally done. You take the rest when you can get it.

Dalton in particular is notorious for crashing immediately on their trips home. He rarely takes a break in the field, even on prolonged missions. Ironically he always forces his team to take rest periods harping on the fact that a tired soldier is an ineffective one. It's just more of a do as I say not as I do thing and as if he is convinced that by remaining awake and on guard he can prevent something from happening to his team.

So it's not unusual when he doesn't stir the whole way back.

It is however concerning when the man doesn't wake as they start to descend. Dalton remains completely oblivious to the change in altitude and the increased movement around him.

The helicopter lands with a jolt and Top still shows no sign of waking even as his team is up and out of their seats and milling about. It isn't until Preach nudges his leg that bleary eyes finally crack open and he comes back to awareness. He moves to get to his feet, straightening up and then swaying unsteadily, as if the helicopter was still in motion rather than firmly settled on the ground.

McG is busy helping Cassie to her feet, working with Amir to smoothly transition her and her IV over to the waiting plane when he catches the irregular movement out of the corner of his eye. It is over in a second because Adam compensates quickly, hand reaching out to find purchase on the metal siding. By the time McG turns to take a good look he has found his balance and its as if nothing happened. Oblivious to the scrutiny Dalton smoothly grabs his gear and slowly makes his way out of the helicopter without further incident, his movements just a hair too cautious and deliberate.

Preach trails behind the stubborn man, saying nothing but purposefully slowing his movements to remain in sync. The elder man finally hops out after Adam does, watching his friend cross the pavement towards the waiting C-130. When Preach's feet hit the tarmac he turns back to reach into the bird for some more equipment and he takes the opportunity to shoot a look in McG's direction.

McG gives a small nod of recognition. He shares Preach's concern and resolves to check in on their leader as soon as he can.

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Don't puke on the plane

Don't puke on the plane

Don't puke on the plane

Dalton holds onto that one thought as if mind over matter will be enough to keep his stomach contents where they belong. He swallows hard, feeling a cold sweat breaking out on his neck and forehead as he tries to breath through the discomfort.

He closes his eyes and leans back against the cold wall. It feels wonderful against his pounding head and he wonders if people will notice if he turns and puts his entire clammy face against it.

Probably yah.

He is so tired and would like nothing better than to drift back off to sleep right now. Actually tired doesn't seem like a strong enough word for what he is feeling. Exhausted. Bone weary. Fatigued. Those are getting closer.

It wasn't that long a mission but it seems to taken it out of him mentally and physically.

His newly formed team had breezed through their first few missions together with only a small amount of friction. He had hoped they would resolve themselves with time, that the team would adapt to the new member and find their groove. But they hadn't and that was on him. Those little issues had chafed when exposed to the additional stressors like the lack of intel and lack of action they had faced in the Ukraine. They had become full blown fires that he had spent much of the mission putting out.

Clearly there were some unresolved issues he needed to address. Conversations with Jaz, and Amir that needed to be hard, before anything festered further. Now wasn't the time though. They had gotten the job done and it was time to rest and recover. Reflection could wait until they were all a bit fresher after some much needed sleep.

His stomach churned again, heat rising up his face and heart pounding throughout his body as another wave of nausea swept him. He mentally ran through the last 24 hours reviewing if he had eaten anything funny. There really hadn't been much, and most of it had been packaged in a preprocessed bar so that seemed an unlikely cause. He also hadn't hit his head, so it wasn't a concussion at work.

That left the blood transfusion.

It wasn't the even close to the first time he had given blood on a mission. Perks of being a universal donor.

He had never felt like this after though. Usually he was a little extra tired but the lightheadedness had caught him by surprise when he transferred between the chopper and the plane. Not too long after the nausea had hit him swift and sudden. Maybe he had given more than usual? Or he just hadn't eaten as much before. Either way it appeared to be kicking his ass right now.

Ah well. They were almost back and then he could climb into bed and rack out for a while. He would feel better after a few hours of sleep.

He felt the plane level out beneath him as they reached their cruising altitude. With any luck the flight might smooth out a bit now. C-130's were fast and efficient but about as far from aviation luxury as it got. Take off was usually particularly turbulent as the engines fought to get to full velocity.

Sure enough the trembling of the walls and seats eased off. He took a couple deep breaths, holding the air for a second blowing it out slowly with his eyes still closed. He ran himself through a long held routine focusing on relaxing each part of his body piece by piece and ignoring the swirling in his gut. He could feel the tension drain out of his feet, legs, hands, arms and his mind emptying of the days stresses. With his mind blank and body loose the heaviness that came before sleep began to creep in…

….For the second time that day a leg nudged him back awake. He was even less impressed this time.

He cracked open an eye, expecting to find Preach again. Expecting to have landed back at base. Instead he found the plane still moving and McG sitting beside him.

"What"

There was a little more bite in his words than intended.

McG didn't respond. It gave him a moment to orient himself.

He took a deep breath to shake the last dregs of sleep and annoyance and tried again with more of a controlled tone.

"Everything ok?" His eyes automatically swept the cabin, relaxing slightly as the sight of Jaz, Preach and Amir all in their normal spots.

"Cassie?"

McG ignored his questions, and only now did Dalton realize why. The medic's fingers were wrapped around his wrist and the man was focused on counting the beats under his fingers as he stared at his watch.

He pulled his arm away from McG's grip. Keeping his voice low so as not to draw attention.

"I'm fine McG"

"Uh huh sure you are. Here drink this"

The medic matched his volume, but there was an underlying firmness to it as he offered Adam a small package of something liquidy.

Adam eyed the pack in McG's hand suspiciously, squinting at the lettering trying to see what he was supposed to be drinking. He couldn't make out the words, and he sure as hell wasn't going to admit that to McG, but it looked like one of those fuel pouches marathon runners guzzled mid race. He had drank one before and wasn't eager to repeat the experience. They usually tasted strongly of fake chemical flavours that lingered in your mouth for hours afterwards. No thank you, he could wait till they got back and someone, hopefully Amir, made some real food.

"I'm fine McG"

He said it a little louder this time, but it was just as ignored and the medic gave him a look of disbelief.

"Fine huh. I guess we just better do a little bit more PT when we get back then because your 100m dash time is a little slow these days. Hell even Preach beat you to the LZ. But no, you're right. You're fine. I'm sure being nauseous and dizzy is normal after every mission right?"

The sarcastic presentation was a bit stronger than usual from the tired medic, but he was clearly just as sharp as ever and hadn't missed a thing that was going on with his CO.

McG took a deep breath and tried again in a softer tone.

"Seriously man, drink it. You'll feel better. There's a reason they give you a juicebox and a cookie after you give blood"

Adam sighed. Looking distastefully down at the package still stubbornly being held out to him. He quirked half a smile at McG.

"Got any cookies?"

The medic chuckled quietly… "No, but I do have a big bag of fluids.I could start an IV if you prefer"

On one of Adam's first tours he had been jacked up for a mission, overly excited at their high value target and eager to be the team that finally captured the man after so many years. They had run into unexpected opposition and his CO's had called for them to pull back. His younger self had been livid, hyped up on adrenaline and made stupid by disappointment, he had stepped out of line and questioned the man's orders not unlike Jaz today. The man could have reamed Adam out. Hell, he could have done a lot worse. Instead he had smiled at Dalton and shared a pearl of wisdom that Dalton still held on to today; _A good leader knows when to retreat. Sometimes the smartest thing you can do is admit when you are outmaneuvered._

The medic had outmaneuvered him and he knew it.

McG : 1 , Dalton : 0

He ripped open the pack and chugged it in one go. It tasted as terrible as he expected even after he chased it with some stale water from his canteen.

McG gave him a pat on the leg and rose out of the seat, satisfied and only slightly smug in his victory. The medic crossed back across the plane to check on his other patient leaving Adam in peace. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back and let sleep claim him again.

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McG spends the rest of the short plane ride splitting his attention between the Top and Cassie. With Cassie he continues to run through a series of checks, but with Dalton he just watches from a far letting the man sleep. He knows better than to push his luck.

They finally touchdown back down on turkish soil and the team is up and out of their seats quickly, eager to get back to base and already calling dibs on the first shower.

He watches Top stumble slightly going down the ramp. Jaz catches his elbow and teases him about having two left feet. Adam plays it off smoothly, claiming that Preach tripped him up get to the shower first.

The man was good but McG isn't fooled and he frowns at the implication. Dalton should have been feeling better by now.

It wasn't the first time they had used Top as a blood bank so he had a pretty good reference point of how much blood he could take and how it would affect their leader. With the amount he had drawn to stabilize Cassie the man was usually a little tired but definitely not this off kilter.

He mentally reviewed the mission. Adam hadn't slept or eaten much and although both of those were fairly standard they may have been a bit more exaggerated than normal. There also had been no down time after he had given blood. McG had barely pulled the needles out when Adam had been up and scheming with Preach. He had grabbed his gear and gun and headed out to set the diversion which had probably involved a lot of running around that wasn't on the recommended list of activities after donating blood.

He loses track of Dalton for a a few moments when the Medical team approaches the plane with a stretcher for Cassie. He assists with transport to the vehicle, and fills the doctors in on her vitals and the treatment that he has done to this point. With a final smile he tells her to take care of herself and not to be a stranger before she is transported off to base medical.

By the time he makes it back to base the team is settled in at the table eating, all except one. The one he really wanted to find.

He doesn't even need to ask the question. The team shares his concern and Jaz wordlessly points towards the living area.

McG follows her finger and lets out a sigh. Top didn't even make it to his bed. Adam's pasty face is pushed into the couch cushion at an awkward angle. It looks like he may have literally fallen asleep. Judging by his position he was sitting up at some point and then appears to have slumped over into some semblance of a horizontal sleeping position. Someone has covered him with a blanket and placed a plate of food and water next to him but they look untouched.

"He eat anything?"

Amir answers quickly. "No, he said he would join us in a minute and then…" he gestures needlessly to the practically comatose man.

McG grimaces.

Normally their leader would be settling in at his desk, working on after mission paperwork, and pretending not to be laughing at his team's post mission antics. He claims it's important to get the reports over with when its fresh on his mind. Jaz figures he uses it as an excuse to get out of putting away the equipment. It was a well tread argument between the two of them that usually ended in good natured ribbing and a mysterious smile from Top.

It's even more telling that the man doesn't so much as stir when he holds his finger to his neck and checks his pulse. He inflates and deflates the blood pressure cuff without so much as a twitch. He even gets as far as inserting the IV needle before the prick finally causes Adam to start and his eyes to glance around suspiciously.

After a few seconds the sleepy man's eyes finally settle on the tubing that the medic is taping down to his arm and he licks his lips about to speak.

"Don't say you're fine" McG forestalls the inevitable protest. "Trust me, when you don't have a terrible hangover tomorrow... you will thank me for this."

Dalton gives him a tired smile and tries to roll his eyes. The effect is partially lost because his lids are already closing. WIthin seconds the man is back asleep.

McG straightens up with a smirk.

McG 2 : Dalton 0

Maybe he should drain some blood from the man more often. Dalton makes for a much more cooperative patient when he doesn't have the energy to fight.

All jokes aside the man would be okay. With the extra fluids and nutrients he would get overnight from the IV and lots of rest his body would eventually replenish the blood cells it was so dearly missing right now.

He turned back towards the table, feeling his stomach grumble at the smell of whatever the team had made.

"Please tell me Jaz didn't cook!"

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Oops that was longer than expected. On to episode 3. I don't think there was any obvious need for medic McG in Mexico so I guess we will just have to get creative ;)


	3. Chapter 3 - The Greater Good

"What took you so long man?"

McG couldn't keep the impatience or concern out of his voice when Amir finally arrived back at the gas station. The smaller man had barely dismounted the bike and pulled off his helmet when the team was up and moving from where they had been "patiently" waiting for his return.

The rest of them had been back from Urzua's mansion for a good 20 minutes. Amir had been the first to leave on the bike, after showing his face, and then peeling away when Booth arrived in the driveway. It was disconcerting that he hadn't been waiting for them when they arrived back. There had been time to pack up their equipment, to load the vehicle, and then just enough time to start worrying before they finally heard the telltale rumble of his motorcycle.

"Thought I was being followed. Had to take a detour"

Amir's response was short, brusque, and left no room for follow up questions. His back was already turned to McG as he headed into the safehouse to grab his gear.

The medic met Preach's confused gaze across the van, confirming he was not the only one feeling like something was off. The former CIA operative was still very much a mystery to them, but for the first time McG had the distinct impression that they had just been lied to.

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" _Ya seriously man, we thought you were going to get smoked"_

It was satisfying to pull one over on Amir, but after they let him flounder for a moment, unsure how to respond McG threw him a bone.

"He's messing with you"

Amir relaxed, and they all laughed before returning to packing up the plane. Preach climbed up the ladder and Jaz tossed him one of the bags to stow onboard. Job done, she parked herself on the wheel well to oversee their work.

McG grabbed one of his bags and turned and tossed it, expecting Preach to be ready for it, but the man was still reaching into the interior of the plane. The gear bag bounced off of the side of the ladder and fell to the ground, rolling across the ground and into Amir's left leg.

The man lept like he had been stung, grimacing in pain and stumbling on an awkward landing. He bounced on one leg, unable or unwilling to put weight back down onto his left leg. Amir sucked in a breath, biting his lip and then carefully lowered the leg down, testing some weight on it and taking a few limping steps.

McG muttered an exasperated expletive under his breath and was at his side in an instant, slipping under his shoulder and wrapping an arm around his back to support the man's off balance steps.

"Jaz, scoot" he commanded, holding the man upright while the sniper slipped off the wheel. She stood a few feet away with her arms crossed, watching Amir with a strange expression. If McG didn't know better he would say there was a hint of concern in her eyes as she watched her newest teammate struggle to walk.

He steered Amir's halting steps over to the wheel and settled him in her vacated place, ignoring the muttered protests from the former spy. He put no stock in the words "I'm fine" coming out of any of his teammates lips.

He bent down to roll up the man's pant leg, pulling the fabric up gently but still causing Amir to hiss.

Amir's delayed arrival, his suspiciously vague answer, the scrapes on the side of the bike, the dirt on his pant leg, all suddenly made much more sense. The spy's ankle and calf were badly bruised, colours already visible around the swelling that had settled around the joint. A few abrasions rak the length of his calf, several of which were bleeding sluggishly again after the pant fabric pulled away some of the dried blood.

McG sighed, looking up at his teammate "I thought you said you knew how to ride that thing?"

"I do." Amir replied peevishly, gritting his teeth against McG's exam. The medic was slowly testing the range of motion, rotating the ankle to see if anything was broken.

"So what? was this one just too much horsepower to handle then...?" He stopped manipulating the joint and moved on to examining the scrapes. "Maybe for the future leave the big boy toys to the big boys"

His attempt at a joke caused Jaz to snort and Preach to smile, but it fell flat on it's intended recipient. If anything Amir's expression went bleaker.

"I just, I lost control of the bike ok….. Something happened. It wasn't ...avoidable" He hesitated, choosing his words carefully and refusing to make eye contact or participate in the jokes with his teammates. His halted speech was slightly alarming and made the medic consider checking for a head injury next.

Jaz, on the other hand, had a different theory for the man's odd behavior. She stared at him a little longer mulling over his words and watching his face suspiciously " _something_ huh?... What aren't you telling us?"

McG studied him closer, pausing his ministrations and realizing the ninja was right. The man wasn't confused, he was just flustered, maybe even showing a hint of embarrassment. It was a new look on their normally stoic teammate.

The team honed on it like piranhas scenting blood.

"Come on Amir. Confession is good for the soul." Even Preach was in on the action, cajoling the man to spill what he was hiding.

Amir finally gave a little, clearly seeing no way out of the situation.

"Ok fine… something jumped out in front of me and I had to swerve, and the bike went down. That's all. Nothing exciting. No good story"

All three of them were now staring at him. McG had completely abandoned his exam, Jaz had her hands on her hip and eyes narrowed, and Preach was perched on the ladder leaning in with a curious expression.

They all knew there was more to the story, despite Amir's claims to the contrary. But no one was quite sure how exactly to call him on it. They were saved by Dalton's unknowing entrance into the inquisition.

Their leader ducked under the plane crossing to their side from where he had been inspecting the front and conversing with command. Top let out a low whistle when he caught sight of Amir's ankle and the impressive colouring.

"Jeez Amir, what happened buddy?"

Amir, raised his eyes skyward, as if wondering what else could go wrong with his day.

Jaz jumped in oh so helpfully to explain what they had learned so far "Amir tried to play chicken with something on the bike... He lost."

Her casual wording caused the cornered man to tense, he tried to play it off with a sarcastic "Thanks Jaz."

not for nothing though was Jaz the team Sniper. Her keen eye could pick up on the littlest of details that others might miss like the tiny flinch and fleeting expression of panic that crossed Amir's face when she said the word "chicken." Her eyes narrowed further, brain rapidly working as she remembered all the chickens they had seen roaming freely on the sides of the road.

FInally her eyes lit up putting two and two together, her mouth curling into a fiendish smile

"Noooooooo, you didn't".

Amir sighed heavily, recognizing the gig was up. "It came out of nowhere…"

"You wrecked the bike to avoid hitting a chicken., a chicken!" She barely got the words out, practically crowing, before she was doubled over and laughing. There was a pause while the rest of the team processed the ludacris explanation before they too joined in, howling with laughter that carried far into the empty desert around them.

After a few minutes, they finally regained their composure. Dalton headed up into the plane to finish preparations for take off while McG resumed applying antiseptic and bandages to Amir's leg. When he was done he rose and gave Amir a pat on the leg, "Well I don't think you've done anything too serious. If you ice it and take it easy for a few days you should be good to go. No harm...No fowl."

He broke off snickering at his own joke.

Jaz never one to be outdone quickly followed up with "Yah, it's ok Amir. Nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone gets a little cocky on their first few missions".

She reached out to fist bump McG triumphantly on her way to clamber up into the plane.

Amir rolled his eyes and stood up slowly, a low groan escaping his lips. It was unclear if it was from putting weight on his leg or from the second terrible chicken related pun in as many minutes.

Preach patted Amir on the shoulder on the way by as if to commiserate, "Don't get your feathers too ruffled my friend, they are just messing with you."

Amir shot Preach a betrayed look, finally showing a hint of his normal dry humor, "Et tu Preach?"

Preach gave him a shrug and a meaningful smile as he headed up the ladder into the plane, "if you can't beat em, join em"

Dalton, opened the window from the inside the cockpit, leaning out of the plane with a mischievous smirk and yelling down "Let's go! Time to fly the coop!"

Amir shook his head at McG exasperatedly, before yelling back "I hate you all" loud enough for the occupants of the plane to hear and renewed laughter to be heard from the interior.

McG slipped an arm back under Amir's shoulder, "Come on chicken little, lets get you home"

Amir groaned again, "I'm never going to hear the end of this am I"

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 _Went in a bit of lighter direction with this one just to mix it up. Plus it afforded me the eggcellent opportunity to work in all sorts of chicken puns ;)_


	4. Chapter 4 - Break Out

_Sorry for the big delay. Life got busy and I got a bit of writers block on this chapter. It was a terrible combination. I think because this is one of my favorite episodes I just couldn't seem to do it justice like I wanted to. But got something down eventually so hope you enjoy it._

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McG ran a hand up over his face trying to clear the sleep as he walked a well tread path down down the dark hallway. He had gotten up to use the restroom but now his stomach was growling and he figured while he was up it was worth a visit to the kitchen to score some of the leftovers from earlier. Cold pizza was kind of a thing at 2:00 am.

As he passed their CO's room, he was distracted from his quest for food by a soft groan that was barely distinguishable from behind the door. He froze in place, lingering in the doorway wanting to be sure Top was alright inside.

After a few moments of silence he was ready to chalk it up to a nightmare, something that was an all too common occurrence in their line of work. One that not even Top was immune to.

Just as he turned away new noises from within had him leaning back towards the door and listening intently to the movement within. He could just make out feet rushing across the floor followed by the bathroom door slamming open and another groan, then finally the telltale noise of someone emptying their stomach. The medic sighed heavily not needing to do much deducing to figure out what was going on within. Sometimes their leader was his own worst enemy and it appeared the events of the day had finally caught up to him.

McG doubted the rest of the team realized just how many hits Dalton had taken to get the job done today. Their leader was the first one to put himself in the line of fire and was then downplayed it whenever he got burned. It happened all to often for the team's taste but had also gotten to the point where it barely even raised eyebrows anymore.

Top had proven time and time again that he could push through just about anything when required to get the job done ….and today had certainly required.

Firstly, the director had been in the field with them and ensuring her safety had been of the utmost importance when the prison riot broke out.

Then, there had been the mission objective itself. Failure to obtain the intel in a timely fashion could have lead to another bombing and the loss of more innocent civilians...more kids...and more of their own fellow servicemen.

All combined, the stakes had been astronomically high and the cost of failure not one they were willing to pay again anytime soon.

So it really shouldn't have been surprising that Top had once again jeopardized his own health and safety to ensure he got them all out safely with the intel in hand.

Unfortunately the man wasn't as invincible as he seemed to think he was.

In fact when he first joined the man's team McG had quickly learned to catalogue potential injuries throughout the mission and to follow up on them later on. Top wasn't always impressed with his medic's thoroughness but McG could deal with a little annoyance if it meant the man stayed in one piece.

He shuddered as he thought back to how close they had come to losing him today and flashed back to the panicked moment when he'd crested the first flight of stairs and had caught sight of Adam on his back on the ground. For one awful moment he'd thought the worst and it had paralyzed him, making him thoroughly incapable of advancing past the landing where he stood.

It was only when Dalton stirred, feebly raising a struggling hand to his chest to check his vest, that McG's legs cooperated to climb the last set of stairs. Once at the top his own hand had been equally as shaky when he reached down to confirm for himself that the vest wasn't hiding some catastrophic damage underneath. The medic wasn't remotely ready to deal with another chest wound on another teammate. The feeling of the Elijah's blood pooling around his hands was still entirely too fresh.

This time the plate had managed to stop the bullet from penetrating. A remarkable feat considering that the presumed shooter lay less than 10 feet away. But regretfully even the best ballistic plating money could buy didn't stop the impact from hurting like hell.

McG knew from experience that catching a slug in the chest was like that was like getting hit by a truck. Your entire torso screamed in such intense pain that for a moment it was completely impossible to narrow down the source. For a moment you had know idea if the vest had actually done its job or if your vital organs had been punctured. It was only when you were still alive moments later and finally managed to take in a few agonizing breaths that you started to realize you weren't bleeding to death and that you had actually been "lucky."

Adam hadn't had a whole lot of time to process what had happened, or even to try to let the fire in his chest subside to a manageable level.

The voices is their comms had incessantly reminded them of the imminent taliban arrival.

Patricia was still being held hostage by a fanatical american traitor.

Oh, and there was the small matter of a couple thousand prisoners with nothing to lose who had been hunting them inside the prison walls they couldn't escape.

Just another day at the office right?

Time was not a luxury they had and even gasping for air on the prison floor, Top knew it. As soon as he could grit out words, he was ordering McG back to the director and insisting they continue on with the plan. So McG had unhappily hauled the man to his feet far too soon and

Firmly ignored the guttural grunt and the way Adam's face drained of any remaining colour.

The medic's stomach tensed anxiously as he turned his back on the injured man to go back downstairs. He couldn't stop himself from peering back over his shoulder as he descended and his last view was of his captain lurching haltingly away with the bucket of detergent swinging precariously in his grip.

The next time he saw Dalton, the man was barrelling into the laundry room, pausing briefly to assist the Director in navigating out of the rubble before climbing into the humvee. The few minutes apart had apparently been enough for him to put his game face back on and other than the bullet hole barely visible below his radio it was as if nothing had happened.

McG had crawled into the back of the Humvee with Nate, fingers applying and tightening the tourniquet without conscious thought. Instead his eyes had been locked on front seat scanning Top's movements as he settled into the seat with a mostly concealed grimace. His scrutiny hadn't gone unnoticed and Adam had caught his eye in the rearview mirror, and shaken his head quickly in dismissal. Now was not the time as they hightailed it away from the prison hoping to escape the incoming insurgents.

They hadn't.

Things had gotten even shittier after that which he hadn't thought was even still possible at the time.

Their flight from the taliban was short lived. They barely hit double digits of miles between them and the prison before the first of several explosions sent their humvee spiralling out of control. Luckily the armoured car did its job and they escaped the first blast relatively unscathed, pushing their way out coughing and choking from the smoky and sandy interior of the stalled humvee.

Once out of the vehicle though they were fully exposed. There was nowhere to run, and minimal cover in the barren Hellmand landscape. When they fired back at the Taliban soldiers surrounding them they weren't fighting to win, it was a desperate fight to stay alive until the air support could get to them. It was a disconcerting feeling for the team to not have the upperhand. And if that wasn't bad enough, a few short minutes into battle a well placed RPG blast hit home far too close for comfort and knocked their leader out of commission.

For the second time that day McG stared down at Dalton's unmoving form on the ground.

With heavy fire pinning them down all he could do was grab his dazed teammate's vest and drag him backwards to relative safety before resuming cover fire in an effort to keep the Taliban from overtaking their position. He snuck quick glances at the man out of the corner of his eye and was relieved to see him shake off some of the fog and begin to call out commands and redirect his team to counteract the Taliban movements.

"Punch right, Punch right."

McG followed orders, distancing himself from the Dalton and the Director as he reloaded a magazine.

From his new perch ledge he tried to focus on scanning and picking his targets, but found it increasingly difficult to tune out the terse tones in his ear explaining the exact timing of the drone and the air supports arrival.

" _Birds away"_

That meant 40 seconds to impact.

McG got the tactical maneuver. He understood why the Director had called for the strike to their location, because it was coincidentally the same location as all the bad guys. It was their only chance against the overwhelming numbers.

He had also heard and agreed with Hannah's assessment that the team was still far too close. That Noah was signing their death warrant when he relayed the order to the drone operator.

They needed to clear out if they had any chance at making a safe distance.

And yet...nobody was moving.

Looking towards the vehicle he could still see Top standing guard. Patricia next to him urgently working the prisoner determined to get the intel. Neither showed any signs of giving in.

30 seconds...

The entire team was still in the blast zone. Holding their positions. Waiting for the signal. Playing a very dangerous game of chicken.

His gaze travelled over to where Preach was crouched and the older man met his gaze grimly, evidently sharing the conclusion about what the director and Dalton were willing to do. His lips pulled into a flat smile, his expression serene and resolute and McG knew the other man's intention without a doubt.

They were leaving as a team or not at all.

20 seconds…

He agreed wholeheartedly, right until he shifted his focus to his left and studied the female member of his team. McG's resolve faltered and he tilted his head in the direction of safety. Urging her to go. Imploring her to save herself.

One of them should go at least, one of them should survive this.

He knew it shouldn't be different, but it was. His mom had raised him to say "yes ma'am" and to hold doors for women. In this moment, staring at the female sniper who was the little sister he never wanted, he was all for that old fashioned rule about women and children in the lifeboats first. Who said chivalry was dead?

But Jaz was Jaz. She rolled her eyes back at him, not budging an inch.

10 seconds….

Finally he heard it.

" _Bagram, the food crates are rigged at Bagram"_

They had done it. The intel they needed to save another base, another team from a fate like what they had suffered.

But there was no time for relief. Or for celebrating the fact that the trio was finally moving away from the humvee and the incoming strike.

Instead he peeled away from his position, slip sliding in the loose sand in his haste to join in behind them as they tried desperately to put distance between them and the target.

His mind continued to count down each second as each stride took the bedraggled crew one foot further away

5 seconds…

4 …

3….

His brain was still counting 2 even as he sailed through the air and landed hard in the dirt.

Apparently his count had been a little off.

The adrenaline rush from somehow surviving that kind of large scale blast had him slightly hysteric and he found that thought absurdly funny as he rolled over and spat out some sand from his mouth.

Technically they were on the winning side of the game of chicken they had just played, but barely. It sure didn't feel like it for a second.

But, when the dust settled it was clear that they had fared better than the other side.

If they were all sporting a few good bruises it was certainly preferable to the alternative. Remaining there as sitting ducks, in that canyon, surrounded by that many guns and rocket launchers... Suffice to say that if they were all a little sore tomorrow they would live with it compared to the alternative.

Top looked the worst for wear out of all of them as they staggered to their feet.

It was hardly surprising, 3 close proximity explosions in under an hour was bound to take its toll no matter how much you pretend otherwise. He had rallied after each one, returning to battle, coordinating the helo exfil, ensuring his team was safely on board and headed away from the danger zone. However you didn't have to be a medic to start to see some of the cracks in his facade as some of the longer term symptoms reared their head. The occasional staggering steps, the unfocused eyes, the slightly slurred speech, it all screamed of a concussion to anybody who was looking closely.

The other big clue that Top couldn't hide despite his best efforts was that his ears apparently continued to ring long after they escaped the desert and the last explosion. Everyone on the team caught onto his predicament pretty quickly on the plane ride back after he gave them some bizarre responses to their questions.

McG had initially been concerned the confused answers were a sign of a deteriorating head injury, maybe a possible brain bleed, but was relieved when he realized the man just simply couldn't hear the questions.

The team hadn't been able to resist having a little fun at his expense and even Patricia had gotten in the fun, asking Dalton if he thought they should change the BDUs to a hot pink leopard print pattern. Top had responded "yah, fine" much to everyone's great amusement.

Their CO had gamely played along, long past the point where he had to have figured out what was going on. McG wasn't sure if it was a stubborn refusal to admit weakness or just a willingness to be the butt of the joke if it helped his team unwind after a stressful mission, but either way Top had let it go on for a good ten minutes before he finally admitted that he couldn't actually hear them.

When they finally got back to base and he handed Nate off to base medical McG had been relieved to finally be able to focus on Adam without interruption and address some of his concerns from throughout the day.

He tracked the man to his quarters and entered the room without any preamble purposefully giving Adam no time to try to put on a brave face. Caught unprepared he found the man sitting on his bed, still in his fatigues, slumped forward with his head in his hands. When Top looked up in a delayed reaction to his entrance, the man's face was drawn and visibly grey under a coating of dirt that lined the creases in his neck and face.

Here, in private, every ounce of misery and fatigue was showing after the long, rough shitty day.

After a few quick tests, McG had officially diagnosed a concussion to which Dalton had just shrugged. It wasn't the first time and probably wouldn't be the last time in their line of work.

McG also made him remove his vest so he could check on his ribs. There were some impressive bruises forming but remarkably nothing seemed broken. The man had to be a mess of aches and pains, well beyond a little normal post mission soreness, but it would heal eventually. McG prescribed a couple days of taking it easy and Top agreed readily enough even though they both knew Adam had no intention of actually following through on it.

Case and point, as McG left the room he suggested that Top take a nap and that they would bring some food to him when dinner was ready so he didn't have to move. Adam nodded softly, evidently agreeing to a brief rest. His body would have overruled him anyways even if he tried to argue as the man was already half asleep on the bed before anything was said.

It was never that simple though with Top.

Just as McG flicked off the lights, and turned to leave the man in peace he caught the quiet but firm

"I'll be out when dinner is ready."

And rolled his eyes in exasperation.

Sure enough their stubborn leader had rallied after less than an hour later and joined the team and Patricia for a celebratory dinner. After a quick nap and a shower he looked almost human again and he put on an even better show.

He laughed and joked around easily throughout the rest of the night and the only signs he wasn't feeling a hundred percent was a minimal appetite and stiff posture in the otherwise comfortable chair. He stuck it out late into the evening, gamely participating in the rounds of storytelling and and visiting and only allowed himself to retire after the director called it for the night.

The man was a glutton for punishment. And he was paying for it now.

By the time McG entered the bathroom in his COs quarters Adam had already expelled most of the meager dinner he managed to eat. His body wasn't satisfied though and he was still hunched over the toilet, shoulders shuddering with great painful dry heaves, that were determined to bring up whatever was possibly left.

McG grimaced in sympathy. Adam's already bruised and battered torso really didn't need to be put through this ringer. In a perfect world head injuries would be considerate enough to make that kind of discrimination.

It's also unfortunate that there really isn't much he can do to help right now other than to let the concussion and the resulting nausea run its course.

McG wasn't sure whether Dalton was actually finished, or whether his white knuckled grip on the cold porcelain toilet seat just finally gave out, but either way the man sank back bonelessly on to the floor. He settling back heavily onto his knees with his head bowed and chest heaving.

The exhausted figure in front of him sways dangerously from side to side and tips forward towards the floor. Top's abdominal muscles are apparently on strike after being forced to violently expel his dinner and are not quite up to the task of steadying him at this moment.

Just as McG is about to reach out to try and stop the man from face planting, Adam braces himself, pressing one arm down onto his knees and the other wrapping firmly around his chest both in an effort to keep himself upright and to ease the pressure on his battered ribcage.

McG busies himself instead, finding a towel and wetting it to drape around the man's neck. That gets the first response from Top, a hoarse muttered moan of relief at the cold liquid against hot sweaty skin. His eyes stay firmly shut but he pulls his arm from his chest and reaches up to grab the cloth from his shoulder, tugging it slightly to the side in an effort to free enough fabric to reach up to wipe off his face.

McGs waits until the man regains a bit of his equilibrium and then heads out of the room to the kitchen. His quest for pizza is long forgotten and this time he is in search of other supplies.

When he comes back with a glass of water and his med kit he sees that Dalton has managed to settle into a slightly more comfortably position. He has sunk his butt to the floor and scooted backwards so that he is sitting on the bath mat with the cold tub pressed against his back as support.

He has also managed to detangle himself from his sweaty shirt and is sitting shirtless with his head tilted back and resting on the edge of the tub, McG can clearly see that the hours have not been kind to the developing bruise on his chest.

As he slept, traumatized tissue hemorrhaged tiny amounts of blood that created near perfect rings of colour ranging out from the central impact point. There are now varying shades of blues and purples so distinct that the patterning on the man's chest could practically be used a dart board if one was so inclined.

McG grimaces at the sight, easily able to imagine how painful it was to breathe right now, let alone move in any way.

He crouches down in front of the man, and is finally rewarded with eyes that cracked open to blearily study him. Adam's eyes are red rimmed from exhaustion and prolonged exposure to the Afghanistan sand. They struggled to focus on him for a second and the medic can practically see the way the world is spinning before them. Probably for that exact reason they quickly close again, throat swallowing thickly against the resulting wave of nausea.

He sighs and purposefully waits a second for the man to collect himself before starting his exam.

"Alright, you know the drill. Scale of one to ten how bad is the headache?"

Adam barely considers for a second before giving his standard answer.

"Four"

McG studies the pinched features in front of him, the tight lines where Dalton's eyes are screwed shut, the white line formed where his lips are pressing hard together. He is pretty confident in calling bullshit on that one.

"Liar."

It gets him a small upwards quirk of the lips that could almost be a part of a smile.

"How about the ribs"

"Peachy?"

The sarcasm is actually reassuring. He finds the presence of a person's normal personality and mannerisms to be a much more effective gauge of their cognitive status then asking them standard questions about the president or what day it is. If Dalton suddenly became the model patient and gave him cookie cutter answers and didn't try to downplay his injury then he might start to worry.

Here take these.

Adam clumsily palms the tylenol and dramamine and shoves it in his mouth without any sort of finesse. He doesn't look to see what he is taking, or protest that it's unnecessary, which gives McG a better gauge on where his headache is actually at.

Just to be sure he takes another round of vitals...blood pressure… pulse. They still haven't improved much but they also aren't any worse either so he is satisfied enough for now that there isn't anything more serious going on. It's just a concussion running its course. It sucks, but it's not critical.

He clears his throat, waiting until Adam cracks an eye open in response

"You done here? Want to try going back to bed?"

Dalton considered for a moment but apparently decides against attempting any additional movement at this point in time.

He gives a minute shake of his head, not even lifting it off the tub wall.

"Nope."

His eyes slide closed again, even that slight movement making his throat work hard against the riising stomach fluids trying to escape.

McG surveys the man, and gives a short nod that goes unseen. He pivots around and parks himself shoulder to shoulder with him, leaning back against the tub in a similar position to the man next to him.

The bath mat ends a few inches short of where he is sitting and the tile floor is cold and hard under his butt. It's a familiar discomfort reminiscent of too many bad nights spent this way after bad decisions in college. He shifts around for a few seconds trying to find a comfortable position that won't eventually lead to his legs going numb or his back seizing up. Soon enough he gives up and accepts that inevitable outcome.

There isn't much he can do medically to help Top out right now. But he can sit here and keep him company as he rides it out.

It's not much... but hopefully it's something.


	5. Chapter 5 - Enhanced Protection

"Ahhhhhhhhh"

McG tried to block out the sounds of distress coming from the prone man on the table in front of him. He leaned in closer carefully exploring the wound as gently as he could but still his patient squirmed in discomfort and sucked in a ragged breath.

"Easy Preach. Try to hold still. I know it's not fun but we've got to get it out"

There was a grunt of acknowledgement from the older man and the restless movements stilled temporarily.

McG pulled back for a second, rolling his shoulders, trying to ease the tension that was building in his muscles.

He leaned in and started again but almost immediately Preach bucked under his touch causing his instrument to miss it's intended target and drawing another sound of complaint from his patient.

He sighed, this wasn't working.

"Jaz, come hold him down would you"

Jaz slid in next to the Preach's head at the front of the table, reaching down to apply pressure against his broad shoulders.

McG gave her a nod of thanks and went back to work.

It was slightly better. With Jaz's hands pushing back and resisting some of the movement, the medic was able to dig around for an extended period this time with only minor movements as he searched around under the skin.

Now where was that pesky little bugger.

He furrowed his brow in frustration, peering closer and wishing he had better light to see with.

"You had to shoot through a wall…"

Just when he thought he had it, Preach's accusation broke through his focus and he pulled back empty handed yet again and looking skyward in exasperation.

Before he could respond, Dalton beat him to the punch.

"YOU just had to make yourself a hostage"

His retort was calm and even and accompanied by one of Dalton's patented eyebrow raises that speaks volumes about his opinion on Preach's earlier plan to put himself in danger.

Instead of harping on it, Top quickly bows his head and goes back to filling in the paperwork in front of him. Off in the corner, he makes every effort to go back to portraying casual indifference to the goings on around him.

Preach looks suitably abashed for a second and stills long enough for McG to resume his ministrations

"Seriously though... through the…. Wall."

Each word is hissed through gritted teeth as the metal dips back into his wound. They come out in staccato bursts punctuated by small inhilations that correspond to the prods and pulls in his back. McG pauses to shake out a cramp in his hand and his patient takes the reprieve to get a full sentence out uninterrupted.

"I mean whose bright idea was that? Had to be your crazy plan Top"

"Technically the DIA did the aiming. Send Patricia a complaint. I'm sure she would love to hear your grievance and arrange some hazard pay for your pain and suffering."

This time Dalton responds without even looking up but the smirk is practically audible in his voice nonetheless as he volleys back, effectively dodging around the accusation

His best efforts to deflect are completely futile.

Of course it was his idea.

They all know it. Who else would have come up with that kind of thing. But their leader is apparently going to plead the fifth and dare his friend to call him on it.

Before Preach can call bullshit, McG finally snags a piece of what he is looking for and quickly pulls out one of the fragments from the wound with a triumphant "Aha"

"Ow, jeez McG thought you had a license or something for this"

The medic shakes his head in disbelief "How is it you take a bullet and let me dig it out with no complaints but this… THIS is the end of the world."

Preach snorts, not denying the accusation, and attempts to push up off the table, "Just leave it then, the rest will work it's way out eventually"

"Yeah after it gets infected... Stop being a baby" McG snaps back as both he and Jax push the older man back down to the table. The time for kids gloves is long over in his book.

Amir walks by whistling a tune that speaks of all the cheer a hot shower and clean clothes can bring. His happy demeanor is in sharp contrast to the harried medic still in rumpled dirty fatigues and desperately in need of a freshen up himself.

"Do you want me to try?" The smaller man offers with a grin, strolling good naturedly into the kitchen and rummaging around for the ingredients to start dinner. He quirks a head at the table and Preach's prone form and continues on "I excelled at operation as a child. I am very talented with tweezers. Never set off the alarm even once." He mimes tweezing something off the counter with two knives as if to emphasize his point.

Jaz snickers and jumps on board, "Or I could do it. Can't be any more challenging that plucking an eyebrow right?" She says raising one perfectly groomed eyebrow as if challenging McG and Preach to question her skills.

McG rolls his eyes, his teammates never cease to amaze him. Not for the first time he wonders if they hold team meetings without him and strategize different ways to make his job more difficult.

Preach seems to share his exasperation, shaking his head at the two of them circling like vultures with eager expressions on their faces.

"Back off … all of you. I will take my chances with the profesional"

"Your confidence is overwhelming" McG mutters dryly, bending back over and trying to refocus on the task at hand.

But twiddle dee and twiddle dumb aren't done with their stand up stick.

Jaz continues on in a mock serious tone "I don't know Preach, I've seen him try and eat with chopsticks. Not sure I would trust his coordination judging by the amount of food that usually ends up on his shirt."

Amir pipes back in from the kitchen "That is a very valid point…. Joe even has that eating shirt he wears. Which I still think is disgusting by the way."

Jaz nods emphatically in agreement "Exactly… an eating shirt. I mean…"

McG was a little taken aback.

He wasn't at all phased by the lighthearted barbs, that was standard and he would happily give it right back. No, the weird startling part was who was the pair of them working together to throw them. He caught Dalton's subtle change in posture out of the corner of his eyes, and realized he wasn't the only one picking up on this new development in the slow thaw between their sniper and their new invisible man. This interaction felt dangerously close to the type of comradery and easy conversation that the rest of them shared.

That fact alone, forced him to swallow any annoyance and play along to keep the light hearted atmosphere going. He shrugged his shoulders good naturedly, "What?! Its practical...Why get stains on multiple shirts, when you can sacrifice one and save the rest?"

Dalton snorts, and dryly opines "most of us manage to just put the food in our mouths in the first place"

McG shrugs again, still completely unabashed.

"Whatever... My lack of chopstick skills have nothing to do with my ability to operate these" he holds up the metal instrument in his hand. 'I'm well acquainted with using them'

Jaz, glances conspiratorially at Preach still feigning concern about the situation. "I dunno, have you seen his eyebrows. He's definitely not THAT well acquainted with tweezers,

"These are forceps Jaz, not tweezers... FORCEPS." It isn't the first time he has made this distinction and his tone reflects it.

When he looks up to make sure his point is landing he finds Jaz mouthing "Unibrow" in Amir's direction. She tries to pretend that she is just rubbing her forehead but is fooling no one that her fingers weren't just implying something about his brows.

She doesn't see the roll of gauze flying through the air at her head until the very last second. Even her lightning quick reflexes aren't enough to save her and the package makes a satisfying enough contact to make McG and Preach smile.

Preach's smirk quickly turns into a grimace and he lets out a loud groan "Owwwwwwww"

Just as McG proclaims "Got it"! and holds up the last small piece of wood fresh out of Preach's skin.

Held tightly in the forceps it looks like nothing more than a glorified sliver. Albeit a very long, fairly thick sliver, but a sliver nonetheless.

Unfortunately for Preach the bullet going through the poorly constructed wall just above his shoulder sent many, many wood fragments down in his direction and a bunch of them burrowed into his skin and his upper torso giving him the slight appearance of a pin cushion.

His patient wasted no time and pushed off the table with a relieved sigh and a still slightly grumpy disposition that was uncharacteristic of the normally easy going man. It was suprising seeing as Preach was usually his best patient. Compared to the others, it wasn't even remotely close.

McG suspected that there was a touch of embarrassment at work, possibly related to the excessive amount of porcupine jokes that had dominated much of the plane ride home. That and it had been a long tedious process to get them all out. Most of the larger ones had come out easy enough but as they got down to the last few it had become trickier to fish out the smaller, more deeply entrenched ones.

Still muttering about exploding walls and ill conceived plans, Preach made his way past the corner where Dalton was making himself scarce.

Dalton's head raised and his eyes tracked his long time friend's movements across the rest of the common area and towards their living quarters.

Just as Preach reached the doorway Dalton called out "McG, I think you missed one"

Preach froze in place, shoulders raising and body tensing, and then relaxing a second later when he realized it was just a joke. He refused to turn around, refused to give them any more satisfaction. Instead giving them all a wave with his back still turned as he departed down the hallway.

There was a second of silence before it was broken by a soft snicker from Jaz, that dissolved into full on laughter. McG, Amir and Adam were quick to join in and the common area rang with peals of laughter at the expense of poor Preach the prickly porcupine.

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 _Full disclosure - I have an eating shirt, and like McG ... I am unashamed of it ;)_ Its practical!


	6. Seville Defection

_Sorry for the delay folks, my shoulder's been acting up and one handed typing is unsurprisingly very slow._

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McG wandered into the kitchen, refreshed and content after a good night's sleep in his own bunk. They arrived back from Spain just after 7:00pm the evening before and had fallen into their beds after a few well deserved beverages. There weren't many creature comforts in their lifestyle so getting to sleep in on a sunday morning after getting back from a mission at a reasonable hour was about as good as it gets.

Usually after a mission he was a bit of a wreck. The post mission crash left him a little less sunny than normal, over tired, and admittedly a little cranky. The entire team was, although most of them would never admit it. Long flights, multiple time zones, adrenaline filled battles and near escapes...he at least had no problem admitting that it sometimes got to him and that there was a good reason all Omega teams were subject to a mandatory 72 hour down time after any call out. That when you arrived home at 3:00 am turkey time, which as actually 5pm the day before in mexico and only a few days before that you were 16 hours ahead of that in the philippines, at some point you mentally were not as sharp anymore and your body started to question what the hell you were doing it and more importantly what is the next meal supposed to be... Breakfast? Dinner? ... Brunner?

Luckily he had always been very talented at eating at any hour of the day. It was a skill that served him well even if sometimes got him some eye rolls when he scarfed down a big meal in the early morning hours.

This mission had been different from normal in many respects. The original objective had actually been obtained without a hitch. It had also been one of those rare ones where they had some downtime before exfil and weren't in a hostile country so they could actually head out to enjoy some of the culture and sights, which was pretty much just code for head to the bar.

Of course that had gone just a tad sideways.

Could he help it if he usually attracted a few "friends" when they went out?

And was it really the worst thing that they got to spend a few more days in Spain? A few more siestas, a few more sangria's, it wasn't like he had stranded them in Siberia or something.

Ok, so there has been the small issue of a Russian defector spy that may or may not have been a fake, but turned out to actually be kind of legit. And sure there had been a possible mole at the NSA in sigint. Oh, and then the venezuelan hit men had randomly showed up and complicated things….. But really for the most part the team had just chilled in the safe house with some pretty agreeable company so it hadn't been _that_ bad.

He would certainly take it over spending multiple days crawling through dirt and mud or being shot at and almost blown up. Plus the flight home had been short and they had practically been already on the same time zone. And the cherry on top of all that was they had gotten back at a reasonable hour. That almost never usually happened and they were well acquainted with night exfils as standard operating procedure and early morning arrivals back at base.

For once they weren't going to spend all of their down period recovering and recuperating. They would actually have the time and energy to do something fun. Maybe a trip to the beach? They hadn't gone there since the bombing. It might be good to try to get back to a new normal with that. Or maybe head into town for night out. Actually, on second thought, maybe not. It's pretty guaranteed that Top will be taking advantage of this period to fit in some extra training while they are all fresh and no one is banged up or over tired. A night out would likely be a poor decision in lieu of that almost certainty. Ah well, the team will find something fun to do.

His scheming is interrupted by Jaz and Preach re-entering the hut, sweaty and out of breath from an apparent run. He can hear Preach laying down a guilt trip on Jaz for cheating so he has a feeling who won the race back to the shelter. A small part of him is satisfied that it's not just him who loses to the sniper on a regular basis.

"Don't worry about it Preach, she definitely cheats" he offers in excuse, remembering all the times she has cut him off or distracted him right as they round the corner for the homestretch. It earns him a punch on the shoulder as Jaz heads to the fridge to get a water bottle.

"Not my fault all you men are too slow to keep up" she fires back with a wink and a taunting smile.

"All men...I can't speak for my entire gender, but I seem to recall hitting the door first the last time we ran" Top joins them from the workout area, his voice slightly muffled under the towel he runs across his face.

Jaz just smirks in response, tossing a water bottles in the direction of Top's outstretched hand. He catches it smoothly and takes a swig before continuing on " besides you all should know better than to race a ninja"

There is a beat of silence while all of the guys reflect on the many different things Jaz kicks their butts at on a daily basis. Their sniper can make just about anything a competition and then proceed to find a way to win it.

That depressing contemplation is broken by the familiar chime of the sat computer.

Their easy smiles quickly shift to ones that are slightly more uncertain.

The team only arrived back last night meaning they are still well within the mandatory decompression period and if anyone is a stickler for that rule its the DIA. Its therefore very unusual to get a call this soon after. Perhaps it's just follow up but those usually just go straight to Dalton directly by email or sat phone.

No this method of communication speaks of something important and McG glances around and sees similar hints of confusion. Dalton mouth tightens and his eyebrows raise slightly, his face is otherwise inscrutable but the increased purpose in his step crossing the room is a tiny tell that he can't hide.

McG and the rest of the team linger for a second before closing in behind their CO.

The room is silent as they watch the encryption fire up and then finally Patricia's face comes into focus.

"Good morning. Sorry to disturb you on a rest day but you know I wouldn't do so lightly. Unfortunately this is important and pertains directly to your team."

She takes a deep breath that has them all shifting uncomfortably

"Ivan Sokolov is dead"

Jaz swears under her breath, outwardly voicing the sentiments that most of them are feeling. In the end he had been a likeable man and they could all respect doing what it takes to protect a loved one.

Dalton cuts through the emotion and goes straight to demanding the facts.

"How?...we made sure his "death" was convincing and that we got him out unnoticed."

"Looks like the Russians got the last laugh. Preliminary tests show he was poisoned, probably started even before we got there."

There is more silence as they all try to assimilate the information. McG can't help but think of Paloma and how hard she had fought to save her father and how it was all for naught.

Preach is frowning for a different reason and he meets Dalton's gaze, brain clearly sorting through the new information and not satisfied with the implications.

Dalton nods slowly, echoing Preach's unease. Something isn't right here. The news of Ivan's death could have easily been delivered in an email briefing so it feels like there is something else going on here.

Dalton finally voices that question "how exactly did he die?"

"Well that is the concerning part, looks like he was poisoned with a radioactive substance. Doctors believe he had been exposed in low doses for months, maybe even years. Seems his cancer may have actually been just the fruition of their long term plan to get rid of him. When his dealings with the Venezuelans were discovered they likely sped up their timetable and increased the exposure rate leading to acute radiation poisoning and death"

Patricia gives them a second to assimilate some of the information and then clears her throat .

"Unfortunately this isn't just a social call, we are concerned about the possibility that some of you may have come in contact with dangerous amounts of radiation while dealing with Mr. Sokalov. It's possible some of your clothes and equipment may have trace levels of radiation. We need you to run some tests to determine if that is the case. Noah will brief you on the particulars."

With that Patricia shifts back to the periphery and Noah's face comes into focus in the center of the screen

"Right, We need you to sweep your area and equipment to ensure everything is below appropriate levels. I believe you have a geiger counter in your gear…. "

All eyes sweep to Preach, the keeper of all things technological.

Off his nod, Noah continues.

"Great. Fire that up and sweep your equipment, any clothes that were worn on the mission, any items that were used etc. You are looking for levels in excess of 100 CPms, anything under that is fine. Anything over, quarantine the item and the immediate area and call base security for a hazmat response."

Within moments Preach has the rarely used piece of machinery out of storage. McG is struggling to remember the last time they used it. Maybe that mission a couple years ago, right before Jaz joined the team, where they were sent to check out a site in Russia where there was concern about what type of weapons had been fabricated. They had swept the place religiously and never gotten more than a slight blip above the regular static noise the machine produced.

They all watched with baited breath as Preach pulled out the machine and began scanning their living quarters. The rest of the team members shuffled awkwardly in place, not keen on standing around and doing nothing, but not really able to do anything except listen to the telltale crackle of the machine as it swept inch by inch.

Shoulders relaxed slightly as he finished the common area as well as the equipment racks. McG felt himself let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. If the equipment they had used was fine then everything else should be.

Now Preach starts down the hallway, pausing briefly outside the door of the first room, Dalton's. Getting no audible reading he enters the room and sweeps quickly before rejoining them in the hallway and continuing down to do the same at his own door and then Jaz's.

When he reaches the fourth doorway the gentle crackling amps up to constant, loud static with rapid clicks that have Preach freezing in place and glancing down at the machine. He frowns and moves back from the door letting the noise recede before approaching again, but there is no denying the increase in noise as he approaches Amir's door.

McG is no expert with that machine but it's pretty clear something isn't right and his stomach tightens at the implications.

"How much?"

Preach grimaces "Too much. Way stronger a reading than just some trace contamination."

They all share a look, as Dalton strides forward and knocks on the door calling out "Amir"

His comes away from the door, stroking his beard as the waits for a response. There isn't one.

"He's probably just out for prayer." Preach is the voice of reason, offering the likely scenario rather than the worst case one.

"The older man continues on pensively "What I don't understand is why the radiation levels are so high. It's almost like there is something in there still giving it off."

"The bottle…"

Jaz's voice cuts out halfway, horror at the realization choking her up mid word.

Dalton turns on her sharply, "what bottle?"

"The bottle" ...Jaz's face is pale and the words spill out fast now with a slight hint of hysteria "Ivan gave Amir a bottle of vodka as we were leaving. Said it was a token of respect from one spy to another. Amir obviously wouldn't drink it but he said it said it would be rude to refuse and that he would bring it back for us to enjoy one night."

She pauses, mind racing ahead "What if they used his vodka collection to poison him? What better way to be sure a Russian ingests something?"

They know instantly she is right. Ivan had an extensive collection of bottles and they had seen him test more than one out during their time at his house.

That revelation has Adam banging on the door more heavily, open hand slamming into the wooden door.

"Amir are you in there buddy"

Again there is no response.

He turns away from the door "Jaz go call base security and get us a a hazmat and medical team here, page Amir while you are at it"

The word medical jolts McG from where he is busy considering everything he knows about radiation poisoning. Alpha and beta rays, exposure times and fatal degradation levels are all swirling around in his brain. He shakes his head to clear the overload of information and refocuses on the important thing. If Amir is in there and has been exposed they need to get him out. He moves towards the door on autopilot and is surprised when Adam steps in his path.

He moves to go around but Adam shifts again blocking him. "We don't know he is in there, Preach is right he is probably off base at prayers. We aren't going in there and exposing everyone just to find that he is elsewhere."

He says it firmly and confidently but his eyes tell another story. They are troubled, not believing what he is trying to sell, busy considering the other possibility just like McG.

There is also a hint of guilt, which tells McG he is making another choice and hating himself for it.

Multiple lives over one.

It's a choice mcG could never make. He always has to try to save everyone.

But their differences are why they both ended up where they did. One as a team leader and one as a medic.

Top's posture in front of the door let's McG know there is no arguing this. That he won't back down.

A part of the medic is tempted to try anyway but Preach clears his throat suspiciously loudly and a still rational part of his brain kicks into gear and reminds him how well it usually goes when he spars his CO. Height differential or not, he is the one who always ends up on his ass.

Dalton seems to realize that common sense has returned to his medic's brain and he relaxes his stance slightly. He lifts his chin and meets the taller man's gaze squarely offering a familiar but firm "We will wait." The words echo from an earlier mission, and just like last time, he knows deep down the time for arguing is over.

It also sparks a recollection of who he and Jaz had been arguing with the last time in Ukraine and he slams his hand again the wall in frustration. Waiting when one of his teammates might be in need of medical attention was never acceptable in his book. The need to do something is overwhelming and he paces a few steps in each direction trying to deal with the excess energy.

The minutes before the hazmat team arrives seem to stretch for days. Then, when they finally arrive, there is an agonizingly long wait while they secure a safe perimeter and prepare a decontamination center and create a plan for extracting the source of the radiation.

McG is just about to suggest that they hurry up and do something this century when Jaz cries out from the kitchen, calling their names at the top of her lungs. Dalton and Preach's heads snap up in unison and soon all three men are sprinting down the hallway as fast as they can towards the sound.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting but it certainly wasn't to see Amir standing in the entranceway of the hut. In fact he was so sure that the man was unconscious inside his room that he stops short in the hallway entrance to the common area and gapes for a second, trying to take in the sight of his teammate with his prayer rug in his arms, returning from prayer like he does on most mornings when the team isn't called away.

McG feels almost hysterical at the fact that after those tense moments of stress, imagining what lay behind the door, Amir is standing there looking confused at all the commotion. He wants to laugh and cry at the same time because they never seem to catch a break and yet somehow they have here.

He later blames that weird mix of emotions for how long it takes him to realize that something is wrong. Because he should have remembered that even if Amir went out to pray he still spent the night sharing a bedroom with something radioactive. Because deep down he knows from his training that that radiation sickness can have a delayed onset. Instead Jaz is the first one to figure it out and it takes her asking "Amir are you ok?" before McG's stomach flips and he really scans man in front of him and begins cataloguing his clammy pallor, the splashes of pink across his cheeks and the dark rim of his collar that is too soaked in sweat for 9:30 in the morning even in Turkey.

Amir sways slightly and staggers forward mumbling something under his breath and letting go of his grip on his prayer rug to reach out for a wall to steady himself on. The mat hits the ground and unrolls at his feet but Amir seems oblivious to it and instead locks eyes with McG and mutters quietly "I don't feel so good."

McG swallows, trying to find some moisture in his throat so he can respond back. He tries for a soothing tone when suggests "Why don't you head over to the couch buddy and I will come take a look." It comes out decidedly false and hollow with his pounding heart also echoing in his ears.

Amir doesn't seem to comprehend the instruction and instead pushes off the wall, stepping in the opposite direction of the couch and heading towards McG. "Don't feel good' He repeats himself, the words softer and more slurred the second time.

Amir's legs give out on his third step and he goes down hard, uncoordinated arms trying but failing to cushion the landing. His face bounces off the floor and he lays stunned for a second, while the rest of them stare in horror. Jaz recovers first and as Amir starts to stir feebly she rushes in his direction. Just as she is about to reach for him, McG's brain kicks back into gear.

"Don't!"

Jaz freezes, confused

"Don't touch him"

She turns to look at him incredulously, but obeys the command, unsettled by the harsh tone that is not normally present.

McG approaches and kneels down a few feet away from Amir, barking commands over his shoulder, "Preach, bring me the thickest gloves we have and a mask, Top, can you let those bozo's in the other room know that we have someone showing signs of radiation poisoning and that we are going to need to decontaminate before we get him to the hospital"

He turns back towards his downed teammate who is still somewhat conscious and looking slightly confused about how he ended up on the kitchen floor.

"You're alright Amir, just sit tight for a second"

Preach hands him a pair of gloves, and he wrestles them onto his hands just in time as Amir attempts to roll, managing to get into his back and trying to sit up. McG settles a hand on his chest, gently pushing the smaller man back flat on the the ground. "Easy buddy, stay put"

But Amir doesn't settle, his eyes are unfocussed and he is completely non responsive to McG's words. Instead he bucks against his hold, jerking to the side insistently and swallowing heavily. Just in time the medic realizes what's about to occur and helps the man roll to his side as he violently expels the contents of his stomach. He settles the man back down, body now limp beneath his hold as Amir's eyes flutter a few times and then stay firmly shut.

"Amir! Hey wake back up for me"

He rubs hard against the man's sternum but gets no signs of awareness past a faint groan.

He is just about to try again when he is pushed out of the way, and none too gently. Men in white hazmat suits quickly surround Amir throwing around words like protocol, exposure and decontamination while moving significantly faster than McG would have thought possible based on their earlier sluggish pace. They efficiently load him up onto a stretcher and within moments he is out of their sight.

McG glances down at the puddle of vomit left behind, cringing at the red streaks of blood and wondering how a lazy sunday morning went to shit so fast

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Hours later he is standing trapped behind yet another door. This time it isn't his CO blocking his entrance but rather large signs about contamination and proper protective equipment that warn off everyone but the specialized team of nurses and doctors from entering the room.

Their team has been relegated to the hallway to wait.

This time the door is glass and there are large windows so the team can at least see their teammate inside and see what is happening. He isn't sure if that is any better though. Sometimes ignorance is bliss and being able to see his teammate and not be at his side just increases the level of helplessness.

Instead he tries to make sense of what is happening from a far. To see the treatment occurring and intuit what it might mean for his teammate's status. He is carefully analyzing every movement, every medication, every facial expression hidden behind a mask, right down to the pace they move at.

The medic finally turns away from staring, rubbing at the bridge of his knows between his eyes. He has given himself the good start of a headache squinting at the machines from a distance trying to track Amir's vitals and instead he settles for watching something closer. Something he can maybe actually help with.

Looking around he sees Preach sitting quietly on the bench, eyes closed and head tilted back against the wall. He could be asleep, looking relaxed and comfortable, except his lips move lightly as he whispers prayers for his teammate under his breath.

Jaz is a study in contrast, tense and agitated, pacing the hallway and sniping at anyone who suggests she do otherwise.

Dalton strikes the middle ground, he stands at attention, arms crossed as he stares intently through the glass walls that separate them. His eyes are locked on his invisible man as if he might disappear should he look away or blink.

"What do you see"

Adam seems to sense the scrutiny, tossing the question out again seeking an update from his medic without breaking focus on the figure in the bed.

McG knows the real question is actually whether or not Amir is ok and he doesn't answer for a second because honestly he just doesn't know. He doesn't know the exact levels of radiation Amir was exposed to. He doesn't know exactly what type of radiation was in that bottle. He doesn't know exactly how long he was exposed to it. He settles for laying out the facts as best he can unsure how exactly they relate to Amir's situation.

"Looks like they have just finished running some blood tests to see the extent of drop in his white blood cells levels and the level of absorption of the radiation into the key organs, thyroid for example is a big one. They've already started blood transfusions, preventative at this point until they get those tests back in case there is damage to the bone marrow. Looks like they are going with Prussian blue to help combat any radiation still in his system. It's a good choice, will combat the most common types of radiation used by the Russians. It's all speculative at this point until they get some tests back and see what kind of levels and exposure we are dealing with, hopefully just early stage radiation sickness and nothing more but we will have to see.

Dalton, nods with the information, as does Preach who opened his eyes to track the conversation. McG knows from experience they both like to know the facts and the odds, no sugar coating required.

When McG turns back he catches Jaz looking stricken and overwhelmed in the corner of his eye. She quickly tries to plaster on her ice queen mask that she usually saves for matters relating to her newest teammate. They all know she is slowly warming up towards him even if she won't admit it to herself yet. They also know that she has barely put herself back together after losing Elijah and that most of that icey wall has been a result of her not wanting to be hurt again like that. Confronting that possibility with Amir right here is probably not something she is remotely ready for.

He wonders over beside her to where she has finally paused her steps and is staring through the glass windows. He wraps an arm around her shoulders, rescanning the room for the thousandth time trying to pick up a new detail that he hasn't already seen and trying to figure out how to comfort her. After a second he turns his head and directs his words back Dalton and Preach as if he is just continuing on their conversation, even if they aren't the intended recipients.

"Look, its a good thing that they are starting all these treatments, it means its not obviously past a past a point where they can't do anything." He feels Jaz flinches slightly under his arm and he hurries to continue, "Its also a good thing that Amir is young, and strong and healthy and it's apparently a very good thing that he is a muslim because he didn't drink it like Ivan and he went out early to pray which limited his exposure. Have some faith in him, have some faith in the doctors, he will be alright."

McG isn't really a man who believes in anything or anyone specific. He is a man of science, but when speaking of Amir the word faith just seems to naturally fit and he takes comfort in that. Trying to believe his own words. Trying to believe in his teammate and if that means hoping that a higher power is involved than at this point he will take it.

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"Come on man you gotta eat something."

There is no response from Amir, save the rapid click of buttons and slight tilt of his shoulders as he mimics the same turn as his video game character on the screen.

McG is not going to be deterred though and steps in front of the screen blocking his view. Amir rolls his eyes and pauses the game earning a small noise of protest from his competitor. The medic shoots Jaz a look and she sighs and gets up, muttering something about coffee and going to the kitchen to make herself scarce.

He studies the figure left on the couch in front of him. Scanning and assessing and also feeling a small bit of gratitude that the man is even there in front of him on their well worn couch.

When McG had finally been able to pin down a doctor for information at the hospital it became apparent that Amir had been fairly lucky. Test result come back mostly positive, and his exposure while to a fairly high level of radiation had been less than 12 hours and well below fatal levels. The radiation sickness wasn't pleasant but wouldn't kill him. The doctors had carefully monitored things and were satisfied enough with his progress to release him. The main area that was sluggish to rebound was his stomach, he had spent much of the week in the hospital on a strong cocktail of anti-nausea meds and getting his nutrition from a feeding tube and IV bags while his digestive organs struggled to remember what they were supposed to do. The doctors had finally discharged him with clear instructions, insistent that the only way to kick start his digestive system was to keep eating small simple meals so that eventually his organs would have to get with the program.

" I know you don't feel hungry but the only way to get your stomach back to normal is to keep reminding it what it's supposed to be doing."

"I'll eat later"

Amir's voice is hoarse from the abuse his throat has taken when his stomach has lost battle after battle over the last couple days. Even just the suggestion of food has made him look slightly green and he very pitifully gives McG a pleading look not to push it.

The medic takes a deep breath, reminding himself that the former spy is not above manipulating his emotions to get what he wants.

He certainly is sympathetic to Amir's lack of appetite and lack of desire to eat. He's borne witness to the amount of times the man has been praying to a different, more porcelain, God over the last 48 hours.

But he also knows that they are slowly winning the battle even if it may not feel like it from Amir's perspective. Amir was now been stomaching liquids almost 100% of the time and had even managed to tolerate one of Preach's patented smoothies last night before bed. This morning's battle with a small breakfast had not gone his way, but the man had kept it down for almost 2 hours before having to make a dash towards the bathroom which was significant improvement on their other attempts at solid food.

Actually the fact that it has stayed down so long and come back up so recently was probably making it harder for the spy to even conceptualize trying to eat now at lunch.

"Come on man, you know the deal... meals every 3 hours. Doctors orders. What do you want me to make you?"

Amir holds his gaze for a second and McG finds himself having another yet another staring battle with a teammate.

This time though, he wins, and the smaller man gives in with a sigh, dropping his eyes to study his hands.

"Maybe some toast."

"Lovely" his tone is light and chipper "Want some Shaka Khan with that"

Amir rolls his eyes, correcting his teammates on auto pilot now. "Its shakshuka"

Jaz senses the cease fire and wanders back to the couch plopping back down beside him.

"I could make some eggs" she offers.

"I think I'll stick with toast,... I've already been poisoned once this week"

"You wound me". Jaz replies, dramatically falling back into the couch cushions and reclaiming her controller to restart the game.

McG smiles as he heads back to the kitchen to pop in some toast. A few minutes later when he returns with two slices of buttered toast, of which he knows Amir will only even attempt to eat one, he sees that the conversation has veered back into a well tread area since Amir awoke in the hospital.

"Any super powers yet?"

"No Jaz"

"I mean really, what's the point of going radioactive if you don't even turn into spider Man or something afterwards?"

It gets a small chuckle out of Amir, but it quickly turns to a grimace as McG places the plate in front of him and waits expectantly until he takes a bite.

" I think I'd go the ability to fly if I could choose" McG postulates, finding a spot on the couch between the pair.

"Weak choice McG, super strength is where it's at. I want to be able to Hulk out when needed." Preach enters the room and joins the conversation. He is followed a few seconds later by Dalton coming back from their weekly on base briefing.

Dalton's eyes quickly sweep the scene, lighting with approval as he sees the couple bites out of the food in front of Amir. He gives McG a small nod of appreciation.

McG offers him a smile in return, and then draws him into the team debate "What about you Top? What superpower do you think Amir should develop"

"You know, I think I'll stick with our invisible man as he is"

No one could argue with that.


	7. Chapter 7 - Its all personal

_A little bit of a different role for McG in this chapter..._

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When they return from Paris things are looking up.

Nobody got hurt on the mission so that automatically makes it a win in his book. Plus they managed to prevent a terrorist attack. So that was pretty good as well.

The icing on the cake comes the next morning when he stumbles on the tail end of Amir and Jaz having a heart to heart in the kitchen. He only catches the last bit of their conversation but it's clear that they have aired some of their issues out and found a way forward after their fiery french blow up.

From what he and Preach had heard over the coms there had been some testy moments in the streets of Paris where their long standing issues and insecurities had came to a head. He loved Jaz like a sister, and she couldn't do much wrong in his book, but even he wasn't the biggest supporter of how she had handled the arrival of their new teammate. He understood where it came from, but it was definitely time for it to be done, especially if it kept bleeding into their missions.

It was all easy smiles over breakfast. Jaz seemed more at peace than he had seen her in a while and it felt like old times around the table.

Amir was initially happy and relaxed as well, proudly sharing his breakfast creation and laughing with the team. But over the next couple days McG began to suspect that something was off with their newest team member. It was hard to be sure because it was nothing big at first. Just small moments where the man seemed more restless or agitated than he normally might have been. Or a few times where he caught him zoned out and lost in his thoughts, slow to react to the conversation around him.

McG initially brushed it off as just fatigue after the mission. It wasn't hard to imagine that re-adopting his cover as Hamid Khedani was difficult and it had been additionally draining when combined with the fact that the mission had run on little intel and no preparation.

He just figured the man would bounce back from it in a few days.

But it's hard to turn off his medic brain, even between missions, and before long he is mentally documenting other concerning signs without even really trying. For example there is very little privacy in their life so it's not hard to notice that even a few nights later Amir still isn't sleeping well. That the former spy's sleep is more disturbed than normal and that the past few nights the man has just given up on it after a few hours or a few recurring nightmares and has headed out of his bedroom in the early hours of the morning.

By night 4, McG has trouble going back to sleep after he hears Amir moving around. He lies in bed feeling some tension in his stomach as the worry for his teammate starts to grow.

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Amir knows he should feel on top of the world after their last mission. There are few people in the world that could have pulled off what he just did. Slipping back into his cover with no notice, infiltrating a terrorist cell within a few hours and stopping a terrorist attack that had been in the works for probably years at that point.

But that's exactly the problem. That taste of his old life, of the difference he could make, it was hard to let go of again. It was hard to accept that while he sat at base waiting for a new mission to come in, hundreds of Omars were out there, plotting and building, and that it wasn't his job to stop them anymore.

He was the tip of the spear now.

It wasn't his job to figure out what was brewing behind the scenes, it was just his job to sit and wait and go stop it when called upon. If he was called upon.

For a couple months that had been enough. He was enjoying his role with the team, hell he was even starting to feel part of the team. He had even made some progress with Jaz, but as he sat and waited after this last one, the reminder of his old life was so fresh it was hard to let go off. It had reminded him that all those cogs were constantly still turning out, that there were evil people out there who needed to be stopped before they blew up the next market or public bus. It was jarring. He felt restless and cooped up. Trapped and isolated on the base in a way he had never felt before.

When he arrived here at the base he had needed the break. He couldn't argue that one. Years of living in one cell after another, in one role after another had broken him down. Witnessing atrocity after atrocity and only being able to stop some of them had left him mess. He couldn't deny that as much as he wanted to. There had been no arguing with his superiors "suggestion" that he do something different for a while, not when psych had gotten involved. He had tried, but even he knew it had been half hearted and futile, that deep down he knew they were right as much as he didnt want to admit it.

So he had "accepted" the re-assignment. Just temporary….they said. They tried to sell it as an exciting opportunity to use your skill set elsewhere. He wasn't buying it and he also wasn't oblivious to the fact that no timelines were given. But maybe he was more desperate for a break than he realized because he had begrudgingly gone where he was told despite all that. He had shown up at the training courses and combat drills and eventually all the way across the world in Turkey to be thrown into into the shocking new world of being part of an omega team.

The first day in Incirlik, when he stood at the entrance of the base and looked around at all the military personel he had almost run for the hills. He didn't belong here.

He had been very tempted to say screw it and leave about a hundred times in the first day. The first time that he saw the equipment cages full of uniforms and guns that would mark them as military from miles away….The first time Dalton put the team through a drill and he had been out of formation and screwed it up…. The first time Jaz had scoffed at him and made it clear his presence wasn't welcome.

But the rest of his team, and even eventually Jaz, had slowly won him over. They weren't exactly what he expected, but they were exactly what he needed. Their constant presence, their support, their laughs and their accomplishments, it healed parts of him he hadn't known were broken. It made him feel strong and whole and part of something good again instead of just an unwilling contributor to something bad. It was like he was a completely different person here than the Amir who worked for the CIA, and if he was honest with himself he wasn't sure which one he like better. It was getting harder and harder to fathom ever going back.

That was until he had to do it.

When the call came in from Mina he had slipped that back into that previous persona so quickly it surprised himself. Without even conscious thought he was back to hard edges and blurred lines. Back to doing whatever was necessary to get the job done even if it meant causing harm or endangering a life. Before he even knew it he was halfway through the mission, running solo, following his own intuition and barely stopping to let the team in on what he was doing.

It was just like old times. He was beyond good at it. And it worked.

They saved hundreds of innocent people from senseless violence.

He, as Khedani, stopped yet another explosion that those animals would have used to make a point.

He was relieved when it was over, but he was also hungry. Fighting the urge to track down the rest of the cell. To see who had been funding Omar, who had trained him, what else was being planned. He wanted to chase the intel down the rabbit hole, to infiltrate deeper and deeper into what had been exposed. But that wasn't his role anymore.

Get in. Get the job done. Get out. That was how he rolled now… tip of the spear and all that.

Ever since then his mind has been in overdrive and it can't seem to turn it off. To let go. To stop thinking about what other trouble was brewing behind the scenes.

He keeps waking up in the middle of the night too late to stop the bombing. Or too late to learn about the next one. The chilling thought strikes him on one of those sleepless nights that they would never have known about this one if it hadn't been for Mina. They would never have stopped it. And that next time there might not be a Mina.

But there could be a Khedani.

It makes him question his purpose here. As much as he enjoys being part of the Omega team, maybe he is needed elsewhere. Maybe he could make a bigger difference back undercover. Maybe he should have fought harder against the re-assignment. Maybe he should request to go back.

There is also a nasty voice in the back of his head that chides him for being too weak in the first place. That maybe if he had done his job better, or dealt with the events that occured differently, that they wouldn't have thought it necessary to move him. If he had just been stronger things might have been different.

Before long his brain has gone full circle, from Mina to his sister and that's when he starts working harder to stay busy. Finding activities to do, cooking, cleaning, extra training, whatever he can do to stay distracted. He thinks that maybe if the throws himself full boar into this life it will keep his brain occupied and off the life he left behind. He wants to keep it as far away as possible from its current obsession with dissecting previous choices because he knows there are some choices he made that can never be undone and will never be anything but wrong no matter how you look at them.

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McG doesn't like to overreact.

It's one of his main rules as a medic. He learned early on that if he made a big deal of things it makes it less likely that his teammates will actually let him know about an injury. So he always tries to downplay things as much as possible. To assure them that it's no big deal, that he can fix it, and that it won't keep them out of commission long.

That's why he leaves Amir alone for almost two weeks. He wants to get involved after week one but he grits his teeth and lets it go on a little longer.

But as the days pass he grows more and more concerned. He tracks the fact that Amir never seems to sit still. That his teammate's days are just a blur of activity, whether it is getting up early to cook them all breakfast, heading out to spend extra time at the gun range with Jaz, going on long runs with Preach, hitting the gym with Top or tagging along with him to boxing.

Amir is everywhere and doing everything and as it goes on he begins to see the toll it is taking on his teammate. There are bags under his eyes and fatigue in his movements, his skin is pale and his shoulders tight, it all shouts that their teammate is running himself ragged.

He isnt the only one who notices either. He catches Dalton and Preach exchanging a few concerned glances as the days go on. When they look to him he nods in agreement and continues to study his teammate with concern. Even Jaz seems to notice when Amir is a little less easy going that normal as the fatigue catches up to him and he snipes back at their jokes on a few occasions a little more sharply than they are used too. Amir is oblivious to the scrutiny he is getting from everyone and that, perhaps, is the most telling.

McG isn't a mind reader. He doesn't know what exactly it is about the last mission that has set Amir off. Maybe it wasn't even the last mission but a cumulative build up of something.

He talks to Top and the man is fairly closed lip about it. If he knows what is going on in Amir's head he doesn't share with the class. But he does share McG's concerns and has said he is keeping a close eye on it and is trying to help the man work through it. McG trusts him but he also isn't satisfied with that answer. Maybe with anyone else it would be ok to let them work through it on their own time, to let it play out a little longer. But Amir is still recovering from radiation poisoning. His immune system has had to reboot and is still fragile. Additional stress and strain is the last thing the man's body needs to be dealing with right now so this whole not sleeping enough/ overtraining thing is going to stop now if he has anything to say about it.

Amir has always gotten up early, well before the rest of the team. On the rare mornings where McG managed to get up and get moving early enough he would find his teammate enjoying a nice cup of tea in the crisp morning air, waiting for the call to prayer. He can't remember the last time Amir has done that. Now his mornings take on a frantic pace just like the rest of his day. They are filled with workouts and elaborate 3 course meal preparation all before the sun has fully even risen.

So McG sets his alarm and gets up at a stupidly early hour. It's worth it to see the brief flash of surprise on Amir's face when he comes outside a bit later and finds McG occupying his usual spot on top of the picnic table with 2 mugs of tea. The medic doesn't say anything, just holds the extra mug out in a clear invitation until the smaller man joins him and they sit in silence enjoying the peaceful morning time before the rest of the base is up and moving.

Amir doesn't say anything and McG lets that silence hang. He can feel the tension emanating off the man next to him as the former spy's brain analyzes the situation and anticipates what is coming next. He is on guard...expecting an attack. But McG is determined not to push, not to make this an attack, to let Amir come to him when he is ready. So instead he just lets himself relax and enjoy the quiet time, and slowly as the minutes pass in silence he feels Amir start to settle next to him when the man realizes the other shoe truly isn't about to drop. They sit there like that until the call to prayer breaks the silence and Amir puts down his empty mug next to McG with a soft "thank you" and heads off to prayers.

After three days of the same routine, Amir is the first one to blink.

"Do you have any siblings?"

McG is doubly taken a back. Both by Amir speaking, and with where he went with it.

"No, only child"

Sometimes in speaking with Amir, McG feels like he is sparring. The man is thoughtful and perceptive, he never says anything without a purpose. Right now for instance, McG can almost feel Amir circling him in the ring, scrutinizing, testing, stepping left to see if the other person will step right.

McG seems to pass Amir's assessment because the man jabs back, chuckling with a soft "figures"

"What is that supposed to mean" McG grouses back, lightheartedly, even as his brain is racing.

The medic is starting to feel like he stepped into this ring unprepared. Even though he has been waiting for this moment for several days it isn't playing out how he expected it to now that it has begun. Part of being a good boxer is knowing your opponent. Predicting what is to come. But he doesn't understand where this conversation is going and he feels vulnerable. He has no idea how Amir's current funk relates to this topic.

Sure enough the gut punch that comes next lands hard. Its unexpected and it sinks in without any defence.

Amir starts telling McG about his sister. About what happened and the choices he made as a stupid kid.

It leaves him winded. As surely as if he had actually taken a swinging fist to the sternum.

McG is glad that Amir doesn't seem to expect a response right away. That now that he has momentum he continues to talk about about why he left the CIA and how he has been feeling since the Paris mission. He is content just to let the conflicted man unload for a while, listening sympathetically to how he feels pulled in two directions, between this new life he likes and his sense of duty to his old one. He fights the urge to tap out and go find Preach or Dalton or someone better equipped to deal with this kind of stuff.

But somewhere throughout it he finally manages to catch his breath and sort his thoughts. He picks himself back up off the ropes and gets his feet moving again. He comes up with a plan to counter.

"Do you remember your first mission with us?"

It's now Amir's turn to look surprised, clearly confused at this direction change.

"Sure… Baghdadi"

"Yah, Baghdadi….. But I'm talking about Kimberly Wells."

McG pauses, trying to figure out how to verbalize the distinction. It's the same mission but he he views it completely different.

"Eliminating Baghdadi was great, don't get me wrong, it probably saved hundreds of people from future atrocities that he could have perpetuated. But in my opinion saving Kimberly Wells was more important. I know it may not have been to the higher ups in DC, that they weighed her life as less than that of killing Baghdadi. But we didn't. We saved her. We made the terrorists watching all over the world, realize that we still care about one life. That to us no life is expendable and that we will fight tooth and nail and will never let them get away with that shit. I don't think they expected us to come after her. I don't think her husband expected to ever see her alive again. I think all the people watching the news were expecting to see a story about her death in a few days. If it wasn't for a team like ours they would have been right. But instead we sent a message that day and I think that message was pretty damn important. A lot more important in my mind than blowing up some terrorist that anyone with a control panel and a drone could have done eventually. What we did that day, and on so many other missions after that, we couldn't have done with out you, Without the skills you have. If you weren't there that day, Kimberly Wells died, before we could get Akhmoodi to tell us where she was. And the bad guys won again. "

He sits for a second, tilting his head to the sun. Searching for the right words.

"I'm no great philosopher obviously. Nor am I a great tactician or even a mathematician. I can't do the exact calculations on whether the lives you might save undercover there are greater than or less than the lives like Cassie Connors, and the hostages in the Nigerian mall, or those saved by the bug on Boothe or the information Ivan Sokalov provides. Nor do I know what exactly is the best way to fight against all the different evils at work in the world. So I think at some point we just have to accept that we are making a difference, and that however we choose to fight, is better than not fighting at all….and hope that it's enough."

He waits a bit, letting his words penetrate for a minute, and then like any good boxer he finds the right moment to deliver the KO punch.

"And most importantly, I think that your sister would have wanted to you to have a life. That she wouldn't have wanted to you waste your life away in pursuit of something that while noble, in the end will never bring her back."

He stands and squeezes Amir shoulder, trying to softening the blow with a compassionate smile…"I think, above all else, that she would have wanted you to be happy. That she would give you permission to live your life, and that however you choose to live it she would be proud of you."

He holds his grip on the man for a second, trying to lend physical support. He waits until his teammate's shoulders stop shaking under his hand and until the few rebel tears that escaped have dried or been wiped away, and then he leaves the man alone with his thoughts. He settles in the kitchen to start breakfast and as he works he peeks through the window occasionally and sees that Amir is still sitting where he left him, immobile on the picnic table, staring at the sun rising in the east, long after the call to prayer has sounded.

When Amir finally comes into breakfast later he looks if possible more drained and tired. But there is also something different about him. He is more still, more settled, than McG has seen him in a while. It gives him hope that maybe Amir just needed that cathartic release, that maybe he needed to tell someone about the inner battle his brain was warring over the last couple weeks so that he wasn't fighting it alone.

In the early afternoon the man crashes, fast asleep on the couch in the middle of a boring monthly briefing on the state of the european union. Dalton raises an eyebrow but says nothing, continuing the briefing and letting the man sleep. They all know he needs it.

Their invisible man slowly comes back to himself and his regular routines. McG happily does too, gratefully turning off the alarm and sleeping later in the mornings. Although every once and a while he sets one early and gets up to join Amir for an early morning tea. There is always an extra mug waiting for him when he comes outside although he can't for the life of him figure out how Amir knows he is coming that particular morning, he never asks. He is content to let the spy keep some secrets to himself.


	8. Chapter 8 - Stealth

_This is my favorite episode by far so I may have gotten a little carried away on the word count... oops ;)_

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Dalton headed out of the tiny ger happy to have an excuse to get out of the overcrowded and slightly interesting smelling hut. There really were only so many conversations one can mine with hand gestures, but the villagers seem eager to try nonetheless so he leaves Preach and his unending supply of patience to it and slips away unnoticed.

The tribe had been very happy to see them return and had proudly handed over the electronic equipment that they had safe guarded during their absence. McG had insisted on staying a few minutes to check on the boy's shoulder wound before they headed out and initially Dalton was annoyed at the delay but now he was appreciative as it had given him enough time to realize that his patch was missing from his chest plate.

Hopefully the velcro had just gotten caught when he dismounted the horse so he was heading back to the pastures to see if he could find it on the horse or in the tack they had used. If it wasn't there then it could have fallen off anywhere in the Mongolian outback. Or perhaps it had dislodged in China somewhere between rolling off a moving truck, running through a forest, or wrestling with a russian brute. Either way it was probably long gone.

He normally wasn't one to get over sentimentally attached to objects and yet he had to admit there was a certain sense of sadness at the prospect of heading home without it. Not only was it a perfectly ironic statement for their line of work, his "does not play nice with others" patch had also been given to him by a fallen comrade back in his delta force days. He had grown accustomed to its constant presence on his hat, or vest, or backpack throughout many different tours and deployments and it never failed to make him smile when he figured out a new place to stick it as they headed out on a mission.

Nearing the pasture he scans around trying to find his mount from earlier. He finds the roan conveniently still tied to the side fencing because one of the villagers it seated on a crate beside it working to clear debris out of the front hoof.

"CRACK"

His hand is instantly at his side on the handle of his gun before he registers the cause of the noise and sheepishly lifts his boot off the broken stick he just stepped on.

But he isn't the only one that jumped. The loud noise caused the khazak's head to shoot up. The young man's shoulders tense and when his head turns to seek out the threat, Adam can see the fear in his eyes plain as day. The groom's violent startle caused him to drop the brush into the grass and he quickly stoops down, reaching around frantically near his feet in clumsy stressed movements.

Adam doesn't want to scare the poor guy further so he calls out "Its ok, just came to grab something I forgot" but of course the young man doesn't understand him. The villager continues his mission to find his dropped tool all the while shooting panicked glances at him so he slows his pace forward and plasters on his sickly sweet smile from earlier miming his intention to look for something.

As he nears the horseman, his frenzied movements finally settle, evidently having found what he was looking for. Adam is within an arm's length of the rear of the horse now so he reaches out a hand to touch at the hindquarters and announces his presence with a soft "woah". He's not sure who he is trying to settle the horse or the skittish man.

The horse nickers softly, far less concerned about his arrival than the man below it.

He runs his hand along the horses back and approaches the front explaining his purpose again even though he knows the man won't actually understand.

"Just looking for something I forgot, will be out of your hair shortly"

The villager turns suddenly.

"Watch the hands"

It's pretty much the first lesson they teach you in combat training. To always watch the hands because everything dangerous comes from there. Punches, guns, knives, detonators…. If you can't see the hands you can't see what they might be holding.

He knew that dammit. Hell he preaches it often enough to his own team.

As the man's hands come out from behind his back, his eyes are automatically scanning them and quickly they identify the long thick metal spike, as if from an old railroad. It's been securely taped at one end to form a handle and crudely warped at the end to form a hook to get under the lip of the hoof. He recognizes the homemade hoof pick right as the man drives it into his stomach.

It's more surprising than painful. But it does steal his breath and he finds himself gaping, making no sound even though he is pretty sure his mouth is moving, and staring downwards in disbelief at the handle sticking out of his stomach.

What the fuck.

He slowly lifts his head, just as the other man does the same. Confused eyes meet terrified and hysterical ones and they remain frozen for a long second.

The man other man blinks first. He pulls back suddenly, removing the pick sharply from it where it was buried in his gut. Once its out they both stare at it in horror, seeing the bright red blood coating it all the way up to the tape line.

Now the pain hits, and it sends him to the ground doubling over on the wound, choking out a wordless gasp as he falls. His knees hit the ground hard and the shock reverberates up through his core, amplifying the pain in his side and making his vision go blurry.

When it comes back into focus he looks down, frowning as he sees blood starts to leak out over his fingers that have automatically tried to cover the wound. Whatever it hit it isn't good, it's coming out fast.

Fuck.

But the Kazakh man seems to have recovered from his shock and he isn't done yet, fear and adrenaline combining into one hell of continued "fight response". He readjusts his grip on his bloody tool and comes back for more, letting out a guttural cry and launching forward to attempt another blow.

This time Dalton is more ready for it. He blocks the man's swing with his other arm, grunting at the impact and the lance of pain it sends through his core. But the man is strong and continues to struggle, pushing the spike downwards, driving Dalton's arm and shoulders towards the ground until the man is practically lying on top of him..

Normally it wouldn't even be a contest but Dalton is at a slight disadvantage here. He is pinned on the ground and leaking important fluids at an alarming rate. He can feel his vision going in and out and his limbs are sluggish and not as responsive as he would like leaving him struggling to keep up with the attempted strikes. He does manage to get a hold of the man's thumb and wrenches it backwards causing the pick to drop out of his grasp. It rolls away into a nearby pile of shrubs but there isn't any time to celebrate because instantly the man switches gears to throwing punches, fighting for his life in whatever way he knows how.

He can feel his defences weakening against the barrage of blows and It's clear he needs a different strategy so he abandons his attempt to staunch the flow of blood from his stomach and moves that hand down to his waist holster. His fingers are slick and tacky and they struggle to find purchase to pull it out but finally he succeeds, wrenching it out with a shaking hand.

Back off…. He grits out. But the man is too thoroughly absorbed in ranting in another language and trying to kill him.

He doesn't want to shoot this man but another lesson he learned early on is that you do what you need to do to go home.

Still the man is just panicked and scared. So he takes careful aim, as much as he can while wrestling with his other arm and trying to avoid being strangled or having his head bashed in, and fires a shot outwards towards the open fields beside them.

It seems to break the man's furor and he freezes his frenzied attacks. Eyes glued to the gun in apprehension.

Dalton takes advantage of the standstill and the space it creates and now points it at the villager gesturing upwards with it and waving the man backwards.

"Get off" He grits out, and a slight tone of desperation bleeds into his words.

The communication barrier evaporates and the man follows the motion of the fun, taking two or three tentative steps backwards and raising his hands.

McG knows the sound of gunfire better than he knows a lot of things.

It rings out just as he is finishing rewrapping the guys shoulder.

For the second time that day the teams guns raise in unison, minus Dalton, and they stalk forward immediately exiting the ger and searching for the threat.

McG fully expects to see Russian or Chinese soldiers returning to the village. He looks around for Dalton, waiting for him to bark out an order. To tell them where to form up and what threat he was shooting at.

Instead he doesn't see anything but vast mongolian flat lands. All around him his teammates peer out into the distance suspiciously, eyes glued to their scopes, fingers on the trigger ready to react to the unknown threat.

Behind them villagers start to pour out of the gers as well. They babble worriedly and while he can't understand what they are saying he understands their fearful tone. Afraid of a repeat from earlier when their defenceless village was attacked.

That's not going to happen this time.

The team will stand between them and anyone who means them harm if necessary.

The moment grows more tense as they scan and find nothing. He sees Jaz shake her head at Preach. If she can't see anything out there than there likely isn't anything to be seen. So where is Dalton, and what was he shooting at?

Suddenly there is a commotion from behind one of the gers on the periphery of the village. One of the villagers has evidently made his way over to check on the horses in the paddocks beyond it and he comes running back around waving and yelling.

Nothing is said, the team moves in an unspoken accord, they fall into formation automatically and start off in that direction, guns sweeping the perimeter at all times as they cover ground.

They come around the corner of the hut and it takes a second to understand what is happening.

Of all the scenarios he ran in his head, this isn't one of them. It doesn't compute.

Dalton is on the ground, on his back with his head and shoulders slightly raised in a partial crunch and a wavering gun pointed at a terrified looking villager several feet away.

The team freezes, evaluating the situation and the thoroughly unexpected threat.

The villagers too hit the brakes, skidding to a halt and muttering as they take in the scene.

At first glance it looks crazy. Why would Top be shooting at a scared villager? But quickly McG's keen eyes go to the kazakh man's hand and they see the spray of red substance that coats his arm. Then they sweep Dalton and notice the way the gun is shaking in his hand and the fact that he isn't even trying to get up.

No something is wrong here.

The stalemate is broken by the gun clattering to the ground with a dull thud.

The pained grunt and discoordinated movements from the fallen man are enough for McG to move, not caring if everyone else is still assessing the situation. It's clear to him that Top is hurt. He will leave the why and the hows for later. Right now he needs to figure out how bad it is.

As he rushes to his side he vaguely registers the rest of the team descending on the villager. restraining him and checking for weapons until they can figure out what happened.

McG lands on his knees at Dalton's side, hands quickly reaching out and sliding under his vest, just like they had at the Afghani Prison a few months ago. This time he knows instantly it's different, the fabric is sopping wet and there is liquid pooling under his hand, He doesn't even have to slide it out and look for red to know the answer. Instead he slides his other hand in, covering the area and applying pressure as best he can right off the bat.

That taken care of its time to see what he is dealing with.

'

"Jeez Top, only you …"

He isn't sure if Dalton registers what he said, instead of responding the injured man reaches up a shaky hand and clasps it onto mcG's arm, eyes wide with adrenaline and confusion. Top looks like he isn't sure how this happened either. He pulls at the medics arm, trying and failing to pull himself up into a sitting position and then looking frustrated when it doesn't work.

"Lay back….Hey no, stay still"

Amir drops on the other side and gently helps push their leader back down. Then his hand's lower to the vest straps shooting a questioning glance at the medic. McG gives him a grateful nod. He wants to see what they are working with but he doesn't want to move his hands to do it.

When the vest comes off he has to work hard to school his reaction.

Shit it's a mess.

Only a couple hours earlier he had been relieved to find the blood stains weren't from Dalton. This time there is no doubt. His shirt is soaked and dark and the stain is still spreading.

Blood is continuing to pool over his hands even as he applies pressure. He lifts for a second, trying to see around all the dark fluid to the actual wound itself.

More blood rapidly fills the hole making it hard to tell anything and he quickly reapplies pressure, pushing hard into Dalton's stomach causing the man to moan and close his eyes for second. .

It must have hit something vital, he mentally maps the area in his head, Spleen maybe? Hopefully not the liver? But it could of if it went high enough.

"What happened man, he shoot you?"

"Not…. shot... " Dalton bites out his first word

McG gives him a look of exasperation, how on earth the man could try and deny it at this point…

"s…..stabbed'

Oh.

Shit. That changes things.

He lifts his hands again, trying to wipe away the blood and see the exact location of the wound, and the angle its gone into the skin at. Quickly more blood recovers what he has wiped off and it's too hard to get a good idea so he gives up and recovers it. Best guess on the angle takes it slightly upward, right up into all the vital stuff that the vest is supposed to protect. But he can't be sure how far until he sees the length of the knife.

"Here, Amir, Trade spots with me."

Amir comes around the other side of his fallen CO and kneels beside the medic, quickly and efficiently McG pulls his hands off and Amir replaces them with his own, earning another grunt and a baleful look from the patient.

Hands now free, the medic begins digging through his kit, pulling out gauze and other equipment he anticipates needing. He sets up an IV and then scanning around him drags over a crate and lifts Dalton's feet up onto it, covering as much of the man as he can with the emergency blanket. Satisfied he has done as much as he can for now he turns on his heel, still crouched beside Top and Amir, and pivots to face away for the first time in a few minutes.

He allows himself to tune back into the real world and suddenly there is a sensation overload as he realizes the entire village is gathered around staring back and forth between the injured man and the one who did the injuring. There is a healthy background noise full of of chatter as they mill about anxiously discussing the events in Kazakh or whatever the hell they speak.

Preach has disarmed the man and is trying and failing to communicate with him, in the hopes of understanding what happened. Jaz, in contrast, is standing still and silent, covering the rest of the crowd, gun at the ready. Preach may be struggling with the language barrier but Jaz is not. Her scowl and posture are a clear warning to anyone that she is pissed and to stay away. No translation required.

"Preach, I need to see what he was stabbed with" he calls loud enough to be heard over the din of the onlookers.

He watches Preach play another game of charades mimicking a knife, mimicking looking for it. But the man is too distraught. Now that the adrenaline has faded he is shaking and wailing into his hands and can barely focus long enough to track Preach's hand gestures.

Jaz quickly loses patience, abandoning her position and stalking over to grab a fistful of the hysterical villager's shirt. She goes for a different, more direct, more typical Jaz approach. She gives the young man a firm shake, trying to jolt him from his meltdown and growls, "Where is it?". When the man continues to babel nonsensically and cry she releases his shirt, shoving him backwards with frustration one motion

Top has been watching the exchange with bleary eyes from the ground and has evidently seen enough. He weighs in, launching into a halting, concerningly beathy explanation of what happened.

"He doesn't h.. ave it… 's somewhere… o'er…...th.. there.

His chin juts in the direction because even bleeding out on the grass the man still has all the angles covered. Still knows exactly what's going on even if he is struggling to communicate it.

"I ..Knocked it… tha'way"

Top tries to get up again, like he is going to go get it. But McG and Amir easily pin him down even though he squirms with a surprising amount of strength under their hold. Still he manages to kick his feet off the crate, searching for some leverage to help him getup from his prone position. McG grimaces as the blanket slides off, tangling in the IV lines and threatening to dislodge them.

"Ok Top, relax, we'll get it. We'll find it." McG tries to placate.

He lets his voice carry "Jaz? Can you take a look around over here, Top says he knocked the knife away in this direction"

He lowers his voice and stage whispers down to his patient, "That should keep her busy and out of trouble for a second"

His attempt at humor gets a slight appreciative smile and a weak chuckle from his patient, but the hint of laughter quickly turns into a cough and Dalton's face sours as his stomach very much protests the movement.

"McG"

Amir's tone is worried. He shoots a pointed look at Dalton's face and McG quickly sees what he is pointing out. There are faint traces of blood is bubbling at the corner of Adam's mouth and slowly beginning to drip down the side of his cheek towards the ground.

He gives a grim nod, using a piece of gauze to subtly wipe away the evidence. No sense panicking anyone yet, Top could have just bitten his tongue in his struggles.

Adam has gone back to watching Preach deal with his attacker and McG is 99% sure that the look of worry on his face is for the young villager and not for his own health.

Sure enough Top isn't done with trying to explain what happened.

"I…. forgot smethin… hrse"

McG rolls his eyes. "Don't talk"

"Nt hisfault…...spooked'm"

The gasps for air are becoming more pronounced in between and the words slurred together in an effort to get them out quicker.

"Top, seriously save your breath and stop moving you are making it worse"

"I's …...notthat bad"

The stubborn man tries to get up again as if to prove his point. Amir grumbles in exasperation as his hands slip and he struggles to apply them on the blood slicked surface. More blood leaks out at a rapid pace as he tries to find the right spot to push down. He looks at McG desperately, panic breaking through his cool demeanor for the first time.

McG calmly assists him in locating his hands back on the right spot and gives the former spy a nod of reassurance. His medic front is always controlled even when internally he is calculating the amount of blood he has seen leave the man's body and assessing the clammy skin and pale lips on his patient, and freaking the fuck out. Their leader's status is declining rapidly and he needs to form a plan of action stat.

The first step is easy: get his mule headed patient to stop making himself bleed out faster.

Normally the first rule of treating a patient in combat is to keep them calm. To make them believe that it's not that bad and that they are going to be just fine.

In McG's experience with omega operatives, that doesn't always work and sometimes a healthy dose of reality is necessary to get them to cooperate.

So he grips both of Top's shoulders, leaning over so that his large frame occupies all of Dalton's view, blocking him from focusing on anything but the medic.

"Listen to me...It **is** that bad, you are just in shock" He waits until the man meets his gaze and then continues, voice firm and earnest and losing all pretence of lightheartedness…. "Trust me on this Adam, you **really need** to stop moving and let me work"

He's not sure if its the tone or the unusual use of his first name, but Top seems to finally pick up on the fact that the medic isn't exaggerating and that there might be a problem here. He gives a short nod before slumping back and returning his head and shoulders to the ground with a grunt.

"That's it, just relax and let us work. We've got you covered. It's gonna be fine." He praises, recognizing how hard it is for Adam to give up control and let the team take care of the situation, and him.

McG gives the man's face another wipe with gauze, cleaning away another trail of red leaking down from his mouth. He pauses briefly to consider the implications. It's probably just a nicked lung. Not great, but the man's breathing is actually not too laboured considering, so that's more of a problem for later.

The infinitely more pressing issue is the blood that is still escaping unchecked through Amir's fingers and showing no signs of abating under the pressure.

Dalton's pallor is now so pale that his skin is practically translucent. And the way his eyes are drifting to half mast and having trouble focusing tells McG he is on the verge of passing out from blood loss.

He needs to find a different way to stop it now or they will never be able to transport the man. Top has already lost too much, he won't make it 5 minutes in the air. There isn't even a point in doing a transfusion until he can figure out a way to keep the blood inside the man's body where it belongs.

"Got it."

Jaz's triumphant voice breaks his morbid contemplation and she returns back holding the weapon in question out for McG's inspection. Her eyes are flaming, promising retribution, and when he looks at the crude device that did this to their CO, McG kind of wants to help her dole that punishment out. This is not a finely crafted weapon designed for clean and sharp penetration, quite the opposite in fact. When he sees the length, the blunt edges and the slight hook of the pick held in her hand he suddenly understands the amount of damage and bleeding.

What a fucking mess.

Only Top could find this kind of trouble in a peaceful village after a mission. But he has more important things to worry about than payback right now.

When he finally tears his eyes away from the improvised weapon, Dalton's eyes are shut and his face relaxed for the first time since they arrived on scene. The medic's heart stops for a second, until his fingers scramble and find a pulse that tells him Adam's heart is still beating, albeit at an alarmingly rapid and very thready rhythm. The man's most important organ is struggling to keep the remaining blood and its vital oxygen supply circulating in the injured man's body.

"Top!"

He doesn't' get a response and he can feel both Jaz and Amir's eyes break away from the hoof pick, snapping to stare at the medic fearfully. McG ignores them, rubbing his knuckles hard on Dalton's sternum and gets rewarded with a faint grumble and eyes that flutter open and then blink hard to focus on the source of the painful rubbing on his chest.

"That's it. Stay awake Adam…. Let Amir tell you all about how much he loves horses and wants us to get some on base so we can use them more often" He hopes his voice is steady and passable and doesn't betray the paralyzing shot of panic that just coursed through him.

Now Amir shoots him a different kind of look, but does what he is told. He makes small talk and builds ridiculous arguments about the need for horses at the base in an effort to give Dalton something to focus on.

McG refocuses on grabbing supplies from his bag. He needs to get this bleeding under control yesterday.

Quickly without any warning he jabs a dart of Morphine into Dalton's leg, getting a grunt and a very delayed look of disapproval in return once the man processes what that prick means.

He smirks slightly, tilting his head in acquiescence of the fact that normally he wouldn't do that. Usually he lets the team decide if or when they need painkillers. But they rarely think they do which is why sometimes, when its really bad, McG makes the decision for them. This qualifies in his book, especially considering what he is about to do.

"Hey next time try getting stabbed with something a little straighter and a little thinner and then we will talk about no painkillers"

He doesn't wait for a response, signalling to Amir to move his hands, and instantly digs his fingers into the opening feeling around for the bleeder. Dalton goes rigid under his fingers and gives a barely stifled cry as his head rolls back and forth on the ground in clear discomfort. The noise draws attention back from the crowd but Amir shifts his position blocking their view, trying to give the suffering man some privacy.

McG continues searching around, his deft fingers feeling the different organs and vessels trying to narrow down where exactly the worst of the bleeding is coming from. He is having minimal luck. Its difficult to distinguish anything because there is just so much blood everywhere. There is a reason this should be done at a hospital with scopes and lights and retractors and suction, unfortunately Top doesn't have that kind of time. At the rate he is bleeding he won't make it back to any hospital.

"Where is it", he mutters under his breath.

Dalton is trembling under his touch now, barely clinging to consciousness, and his hands keep coming up of their own accord, weakly trying to shove away the torturous thing that is digging in his stomach. Amir catches the clumsy hands and holds them tight, keeping them out of the way and giving them a reassuring squeeze.

He offers quiet platitudes to the miserable man "it's alright, he's almost done" even as his eyes shoot worried glances at McG and the amount of blood that is continuing to escape the wound.

"Yup, almost there" McG finds himself agreeing.

It's a complete lie.

His fingers are swimming in fluid, drowning in the cavity that just keeps filling and he is still completely clueless about what he needs to plug to make it stop. He has narrowed it down to the area around the spleen but he has gone over the organ several times and can't find any hole or damage to account for this. He can't see anything and is flying blind and by touch and it's just not working.

Adam's hands go limp in Amir's grip. His body finally giving into the blood loss induced exhaustion and the medic induced pain. Amir tries to shake him awake but there is no response, this time he is out cold for good.

McG feels the lack of tension as he works but he doesn't have time to worry about it. He can feel the blood still pumping under his fingers so he knows that man is still alive and keeping going with what he is doing is the only way to keep it that way.

His internal diatribe gives him inspiration, keying in on the word pumping. For blood to be coming out this fast it must be arterial. The heart has to be pumping the blood through… so where are the main arteries. It must be one of them.

He closes his eyes, shutting out the all the blood, the stares of his teammates and the crowd, the sight of his leader limp and too pale.

He retreats into one of well worn human anatomy books, visualizing this area of the stomach and mapping out the main arteries surrounding the liver and spleen. He mentally tries to align that with what he is feeling. There… thats the common hepatic. He finds the first landmark, fingers quickly searching it and finding it intact. Satisfied he follows it along to where it branches, ghosting his fingers along what should be the splenic artery until ...THERE! His fingers find something irregular, returning back and forth over the location until he is sure he has the right spot.

Yes.. that has to be it. It feels like a tear in the artery wall. He quickly pinches down, holding down the two sides of the vessel and forming what he hopes is a seal.

He opens his eyes and winces at the bright daylight. The breath he has been holding comes out in shakey whoosh of air and he feels faintly dizzyas he re enters the real world outside of Dalton's stomach. When his eyes refocus he sees too many people staring at him expectantly and he doesn't have any answers for them yet. He doesn't know if he was successful. Hurriedly he glances down at where his right hand is partially embedded in the wound. He holds his breath again, waiting, watching, and when no new spurts of blood appear after a minute he hesitantly reaches his free hand to Dalton's neck.

There is a pulse.

Its weak, its faint, but there is still a damn pulse.

He offers a shaky smile to his teammates. They aren't out of the woods yet, but that was a big hurdle. He scrubs his free hand over his face, trying to clear away the sweat he can feel coating his forehead, but instead he succeeds in smearing some of Dalton's blood on his face.

Crap.

McG pulls, clumsily at his sleeve with the same hand that's in it, trying to pull it up to cover his hand so he can wipe away any of the transferred blood.

Preach's voice cuts in distracting him with some welcome news "Bird is two minutes out"

Thank God.

Okay, now that he has found the bleeder he needs to clamp it and prep Dalton for transport. He digs out one of his clamps and slides it under his hand and into the wound. It traces down along his fingers but he can't seem to get the right angle to get it to where he needs it. Slowly, carefully he withdraws it, starting to hear the faint sounds of rotors approaching. He tries again from a different angle, going in from the side and then when that doesn't work from the top of his hand. Each time the clamp lodges in the spleen, refusing to go around to get to the backside where his fingers have found the tear.

The helicopter is landing now, maybe 800 meters away.

Fuck it.

He will transport like this. It's not worth trying and failing to clamp and losing his hold on the artery. Dalton will bleed out before he finds it again.

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"So let me get this straight, you had your hand in me for over three hours... I feel so violated"

Two days later Dalton is sitting up in his hospital bed looking incredulous as the team recounts the story of the end of their mongolian mission. Turns out his memory was pretty much a blur after heading out to go to the pasture. It was probably for the best, although he seemed hell bent on having them fill in the gaps. It's the third time they have tried to tell it and first time he has managed to actually stay awake past the first few minutes. Probably by sheer stubbornness alone. He is healing well, but is still ghostly pale and is scheduled for another blood transfusion this afternoon to try to help with the extreme exhaustion that is plaguing him while his body replenishes.

"Trust me not my idea of a good time" McG grimaces playfully, pretending to be disgusted "Besides blame your surgeons, they wouldn't let me take it out once we got here… I had to sit there with it in until they did an MRI, and an ultrasound, and prepared you for surgery" … He pauses for dramatic effect before continuing on "I'm putting in for workers compensation, I got a hand cramp."

The team laughs at his feigned complaints. Dalton smiles in amusement but his abdominal muscles are not up for much right now. Breathing is still a chore, and sitting up is well beyond his current capability, so laughing will have to wait for good while longer.

Tops eyes are pretty much shut and he is well on his way back to sleep for his fourth nap of the day, all before noon, when he mutters "I'll be sure to get you a manicure for your dainty digits next christmas, maybe even a pedicure if you are nice to me"

He is asleep in seconds, getting the last word by default because it feels childish to snipe back at someone who is already snoring softly. But thats okay, they are happy to let him have this round. There will be plenty of time and plenty of ways to remind him that a village groom got the jump on him.

They also will have to find a creative way to return his patch to him. They hadn't realized that was what he had gone looking for that had led to all this mess until one of the villagers had found it and brought it forward just as they were loading on the chopper. Sometimes it paid to play nice with others.


	9. Chapter 9 - Desperate Times

_So funnily enough I was actually planning on combining the next two episodes. Didn't think there was anything to focus on in episode 1x09 and was just going to skip ahead to a piece based on the next episode after they find her. But then I had a little piece of writing left over that I didn't use in the last chapter and I thought maybe I could do a short one based on that… and then it grew and took on a life of its own and I enjoyed the hell out of writing it because there is just an awesome amount of angst and team chemistry to play with in this episode. Not sure what I was thinking almost missing out on it. So here we are with a little interlude that starts between 1x09 and 1x10._

 _*** warning: description of panic attack***_

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McG is worried

Okay, that's the understatement of the year.

It's almost comical how inadequately that covers it. Except that nothing is really funny right now.

He is always a little concerned when one of his teammates is injured

It goes to a whole other level when they are injured and he is powerless to help them

This… this is ….

He's not really sure he has the right words to describe just how much worse this is.

Jaz is in enemy hands.

They are probably doing God knows what to her and the team is completely helpless to do anything about it.

Their highly trained unit is rendered completely useless. They are utterly lost and directionless, no matter how much they pretend otherwise. Relegated to busy work in an attempt to stay sane and pretend that they are doing something useful. When really, if they are honest with themselves all they are really doing is waiting.. hoping, trying not to drown in the futility of it all. Just trying to stay ready just in case the chance somehow comes around that they might be able to rescue her. And desperately trying not to think about the much more likely scenario that is looming where they will be forced to exfil without her.

Right now it kind of feels like they are the ones being tortured. Judging by the rest of the team's general demeanour and restlessness he knows he is not alone in that feeling. Sitting here passing time while his brain conjures up every possible way they could be hurting her, how much she could be suffering, how alone she is. It is worse than anything he could have imagined. Infinitely worse than losing Elijah because as shitty as that was at least he knew the man wasn't hurting anymore. He could believe that Elijah was at peace and in a better place even as they were left behind to mourn his loss.

He tries to be naive and optimistic and consider the fact that maybe they will just question her and imprison her and hold her for trial. That maybe some sort of diplomatic dealings will be able to save the day. But that lasts less than a second...who is he kidding. It's Iran, and she is American and eventually they will see past her french dialogue and figure that out. And when they do, it's the Quds, they will want answers and all the information she can give them. Plus its Jaz so she won't play nice and she won't give in so she will probably tell them to go pound sand at every opportunity which will just make everything worse and make things harder on her.

And there is absolutely nothing he can do about it.

Except feel guilty.

When his brain gets tired of obsessing over what might be happening to her it switches to berating himself…Firstly for having the audacity to feel sorry for himself and the team because no matter how agonizing this is for them it can't even compare to whatever Jaz is probably going through right now. And then it moves on to hating himself for not doing something differently to stop Jaz from going in to the hotel in the first place, and for failing to get her out when it all went to shit. Maybe if he had just cleared one more floor, taken out one more guard, or stayed with her through one more set of stairs the outcome might have been different.

His monday morning quarterbacking of the mission is interrupted by Hossein's return and Dalton reigniting conversation with the team to grasp at some more straws. Their leader is desperately trying to regain some control, some sense of purpose, to believe that they are making progress.

McG gets it. It always feels better to try to believe you are doing something productive in situations like this.

And its Jaz.

He gets it. He really, really does.

That's why he bites his tongue when Top snaps at him, relegating him to check the meds supplies even though it's already been done.

Dalton is not himself right now. None of them are if they are honest. And that's not even opening the can of worms that is Dalton and Jaz.

McG can think of very few occasions where their CO has raised his voice, even fewer where it has been directed at his own team. Top, as they know him, doesn't usually rely on volume to get his message across. The way he is talking to command, the way he is talking to them, this is unchartered territory right now.

So he dutifully goes and preps his medical kit for if they find her.

When, they find her.

When.

The problem with this task though is that..A) he already did it so he is really just pulling items out of slots and sticking them right back in. And B) going through the supplies yet again just gives his brain more ammunition to obsess over. His medic's mind kicks back into overdrive. As he replaces the gauze rolls he is imaging the different types of wounds that could be inflicted to cause maximal pain or blood loss. And then when he gets to his section of splints and slings he starts to wonder if he really has enough. A person can break a lot of bones in a short period of time if they are actually trying to. The ventilation kit and chest tubes section of his kit actually makes him shudder and he wills himself to stop thinking like this. Not wanting to consider in detail how bad of shape she might be in that he could need these items. He is going to drive himself crazy if he keeps at this, conjuring up all the horrible possibilities.

So instead he tries to focus his attention on something else. On someone else that maybe he can actually help right now. He turns his attention back to his leader, studying the man, maybe there is something he could be doing to make sure the man keeps functioning because God knows he isn't focusing on his own health right now. He will probably need to make sure the man eats and sleeps at some point in the coming hours, but it could be a scary prospect trying to get him to do so. It will take a creative approach and maybe a team effort, to avoid any bloodshed. He winces at his own word choice. It isn't nearly as funny when that probably is actually occuring to one of their own.

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Holy shit.

When he comes back from their visit to Hossein's contact, he is long past concerned and miles and miles past worried. He has officially arrived at full on panicking.

They just shot someone…. With no warning….. In broad daylight…. With no exfil plan…

Adam could have killed the guy. They could easily have been caught and arrested.

And Top planned it too.

That's why he brought the medic along. He knew exactly what he was willing to do.

It wasn't the man losing his temper or acting in the moment.

McG had been surprised when Dalton had called for him to come with him and Hossein to meet the contact. Amir was the much more obvious choice both for his language skills and ability to blend in this environment when it was imperative their presence go unnoticed. Preach and Amir had seemed just as surprised as him, but like McG they knew better than to question it at that moment. Most of the time Top is open to input from his team members and supports people respectfully raising opinions that challenge his so that they can discuss all sides and make the best decision as a team. That had not been one of those times. It would not have gone well for anyone to have questioned that decision at that moment.

But now in hindsight it's all so clear what was behind it.

Holy Shit.

Immediately upon their return Dalton had stormed out of the room, muttering something unintelligible that McG took to mean to give him a minute. McG slumps in a nearby chair, also needing a minute.

He can feel Preach and Amir's questioning gazes on him. Wondering what the hell happened on their excursion. How exactly they got the address that they relayed over the comms.

He would be concerned if he was them too. He knows their sharp eyes will have

picked up the blood on his sleeves and that they probably have a suspicion about what might have occured.

McG thinks it might be more concerning actually knowing what happened. He wishes he was still in the dark, thinking that maybe they just roughed the guy up a little. Maybe he should have expected this and he is just naive and has never actually been in that position before. But as a medic it's hard to get past intentionally injuring when it was so unprovoked and so severe. He knows exactly how much muscle and tissue damage a bullet causes. How the only difference between a clean through and through and a bullet that shatters the femur or knicks the femoral artery is a matter of inches. He's not sure why, it just felt so different than beating someone for information.

But there was no arguing it was effective and he just keeps reminding himself that it was for Jaz, and that the guy had ties to the quds and was no angel.

He leans forward into his hands, scrubbing them over his face as if he can erase the last couple hours from his memory. Or hell maybe the last couple days if he is really lucky.

Preach and Amir are still staring at him wanting updates. Preach mutes the link to the DIA. Correctly surmising that there are things that occured that they don't want the higher ups to know about.

McG stands and paces for a second, trying to find the words to describe it. What it looked like to watch your leader go off the rails, to cross a line you never thought he would cross. He doesn't know how to convey the darkness he just witnessed come out of the man. The remorseless look on his face when he stood over the bleeding man and promised to let him die there. McG doesn't think it was a bluff and that might be what scares the shit out of him the most. Not so much what happened but what could have happened.

He was all for doing whatever it took to get Jax back, even if it meant that. He just wasn't sure there would ever be any going back to normal at this point. That ship has sailed. Lines had been crossed and even if they somehow succeeded they would never be the same and admitting it out loud makes it seem more real and more permanent.

McG opens his mouth and then closes it. Words getting stuck in his throat again, still too rattled.

He gives them an apologetic glance and then follows Dalton out the door. It's not really his story to tell anyways.

He heads through the pantry area that they had been using to rack out in and comes to the top of the staircase that leads to the back door. Dalton has escaped to this spot on several occasions throughout this fubar mission, whether it was to communicate with Patricia alone or to think he doesn't know.

McG pauses at the top of the stairs evaluating the situation.

Dalton is at the bottom, leaning against the wall and bent over with his hands braced on his knees.

The man has been running on empty for weeks prepping for this mission. And now it has all gone to shit and one of his team members is missing.

Dalton always seems to think he can fix things through sheer willpower but as McG studies him, he starts to wonder if cracks are starting to form in that indominateble self assurance.

The man hasn't eaten, or slept, or paused in days. And it looks like it has all finally caught up to him. The stress, the strain, the decisions, the mistakes, all tiny fissures wearing away until maybe the weight is just too much to keep carrying without something giving out.

Even from a distance he can see that Adam is shaking. The man is muttering to himself and taking harsh breaths. If McG had to guess he is probably telling himself to get it together. Not willing to allow himself even the slightest moment of weakness. Maybe the reality of what they just did is catching up to Top now leaving him temporarily rattled just like McG.

It's one thing to do it in the moment it's another to live with it after.

McG resolves to go, wanting to give the man some privacy. Dalton doesn't show emotion or weakness or anything like this very often. He deserves to be able to breakdown and put himself back together in privacy without feeling like he is being evaluated or judged on it.

But as he is turning he sees the man's leg's buckle out from under him sending him down to the ground and he suddenly isn't so sure if leaving him alone is the right course of action.

Dalton tries to get up, pushing against the wall and he gets halfway up before his legs give out again and he ends up slumped back against the wall firmly on the ground. He runs his hands up his face in frustration, knocking off his fake glasses he evidently has forgotten were on his face. He picks them up with a shaking hand and throws them against the far wall in frustration.

The medic grimaces when he sees Dalton start to take shorter choppy breaths, well on his way to hyperventilating. The man's shoulders and neck are tense as clumsy fingers work their way up and struggle to undo a few more buttons on his collared shirt. Finally succeeding he pulls at the sides of the shirt, opening them wider and then when that doesn't help begins trying to shrug out of the restrictive jacket he is wearing.

His arms get caught in the jacket sleeves and he struggles against it, movements becoming more and more desperate until he finally yanks the fabric, tearing it slightly but arriving at his goal. Now with the jacket off and shirt more open he tries to muscle through some deep breaths, neck and shoulders straining at the effort.

McG has seen enough. Its typical Top to try and grit his way through anything through sheer force of will. But you can't will your lungs to function. That's just not how it works. Especially when tension and stress is the problem, it actually will make it worse.

He knows that vicious cycle well, where stress and panic combine to tighten your stomach and your chest. It can be so minimal at first you don't even realize that it's happening. Everything maybe just feels a bit clenched and tense so you ignore it. But when that tension is prolonged and severe enough it restricts your lungs just enough that you short yourself a little bit of air on each breath and soon your body starts to really feel the lack of oxygen. Your chest starts to burn, your head starts to swim, your heart starts to pound sounding the alarm that something is terribly wrong. Ironically the only response your body offers is to try harder to pull in more air which means more shallow breaths, further exacerbating the problem until it feels like the world is ending.

Its nasty and its scary and he isn't going to leave Adam alone to deal with it.

Decision made, he heads down the stairs, sliding down the wall next to Top and bumping shoulders as a tactile way to announce his presence and support.

Dalton continues to breathe irregularly fast next to him, starting to gasp for air and shooting a panicked look at McG,

"McG, somethings wrong, can't breathe…."

"It's ok, you will be able to."

He aims for simple and reassuring. Hoping to set a calming tone for their interaction.

He knows there is nothing worse than telling the person to "just breathe", it isn't that simple, and and it sure as hell doesn't help to be told it is in the moment.

"Try to slow your breathing rate. Bring the air in in nice and slow, hold for a second. Blow it out through your mouth."

"No, McG", Dalton somehow manages to strongly convey exasperation that the medic is missing the point even though his words are weak and breathy. " My chest … s' tight… hurts"

He has to look away to hide his facial expression, because its completely unsurprising that Top refuses to consider anything other than a physical cause of his symptoms. But showing his amusement won't help either so instead he reaches over and humours the man. Making a show of checking his pulse, listening to his chest and ruling out the standard causing of chest pain and breathing difficulties.

"I don't see anything wrong, Adam."

He waits a beat before trying to gently broach the subject.

"Is it possible that maybe things just got a little overwhelming? That this is your body's way of saying take a break?"

That question has Dalton looking away from him, refusing to make eye contact and shaking his head slowly but firmly.

"Alright. Alright... Just take some time, it will pass."

That gets a more fervent shake of the head

"Don't… time… Jaz...doesn't 've time"

It's impressive how Dalton manages to sound so firm, even a tad snarky while hyperventilating, because the subject of Jaz has his breathing rate ramping up even higher. Anxiety level evidently skyrocketing as he focuses on the source of his stress.

McG sighs, taking a long breath and trying to find the right words.

"You can't help her until you take care of yourself"

He waits patiently, letting that sink in past the surging panic, until eventually Dalton's head turns back towards him and he gets a short nod.

"Okay, so in through your nose, nice and slow, hold it for 2 and then breathe it out through your mouth"

He models the nice controlled breathing as he coaches, over emphasizing each part and the desired tempo.

He feels Adam make an effort next to him, struggling to break the rapid cycle he is locked in on. The man succeeds in bringing the air in through his nose, but he shudders, breath hitching before he releases the air in a quick burst. He automatically inhales a short gulp of air again rapidly after.

Top tries again, getting a very similar result and he shoots McG a look of frustration, clearly dismissing the tactic as ineffective. Jaz had not so affectionately dubbed these techniques "McG's hippie breathing shit" on a previous instance where he had needed them with her. Dalton looks like he shares the same opinion of it.

Adam scrubs his hands up and down his face as if he can rub away the foreign sensations that are plaguing his body and when his hands come away they are visibly shaking. He glares at them traitorously and folds them into fists that he rubs up and down his legs in agitation.

Then he turns his anger to the man beside him

"Doesn't…. work…"

This time the medic doesn't try as hard to hide his eye roll. McG is done with sugar coating… although he keeps his tone light and pleasant even as he lets a little sarcasm creep in.

"Okay fine. Just keep doing what you are doing. Its working real well for you so far."

That gets him another scornful look before the man closes his eyes and takes a few more wheezing breaths, sounding as out of breath as if he was running a marathon.

He lets it go on for another minute or so. Knowing Dalton is stubborn and there is no point in pressuring him until he is ready to accept help.

Still there might be a different way to speed things along…

He lets his fingers drift obviously to Adam's wrist, spending an excessively long time taking his pulse. Then he makes a purposefully grimm noise that has Adam's eyes opening and studying him in concern.

"Top, this is getting serious, maybe it's time to take something?"

He sees Dalton's eyes narrow, and he grits out a single slurred phrase "mfine"

"Are you sure, there is no shame in a little extra help"

He easily translates the next look to mean fuck off.

Perfect.

There really would be no shame in it. And honestly the man could probably use it at this point. But he knows Dalton will never accept that as a reasonable option in the present circumstances. He is counting on that stubborness to kick in and get the man focused on proving him wrong rather than the anxiety that is currently crippling him.

Call it reverse psychology, call it Dalton psychology, call it a distraction technique, call it whatever you want… but he sees it working.

The man grinds his teeth and gestures with his hand for McG to go again. Suddenly McG's breathing techniques are the better option and Dalton is willing to apply himself a bit more to them.

"Okay take a slow breath - in through your nose, nice and deep, hold it, hold it and out nice and slow through your mouth…. That's it"

He repeats the sequence a few times and slowly Dalton, manages to get the pattern down even if it is still fast and shaky. He successfully pulls the air in through his nose and blows it out in a stream of air through his lips.

"That's a good start, now lets get that air deeper down."

he places his hand firmly on the man's stomach.

It's weird, he can admit it, and Dalton clearly thinks so too, raising an eyebrow at the medic.

McG ignores him, continuing to talk him through the breathing pattern.

"In through your nose, hold it, and out through your mouth, Good." He praises… "Now this time, bring the air all the way down, as deep as you can, and make my hand raise"

This time it's Dalton rolling his eyes. But McG is a big boy. He can take the skepticism because he knows the man is actually listening and if an eye roll helps him save face or feel in control then go for it.

Top doesn't respond to McG, but his breathing slowly becomes deeper as he focuses on getting the air deep into his diaphragm. Gradually his breathing rate slows closer to normal, it loses the raggedness and falls into an easier rhythim, coming closer and closer to matching McG's steady pace.

They sit for a moment in their own little bubble. Top is seemingly oblivious to the world around him, focused entirely on the specific task of pulling in air in the way he is being instructed to. He is entirely focused on that rhythm instead of all the issues plaguing his team right now.

McG slowly trails off, letting the man continue on his own without instruction.

They sit for a few moments in silence.

He can feel Dalton's thundering heartbeat slowing as the adrenaline eases and the man's body relaxes slightly, sagging back against the wall. Soon his head tilts back, lolling side to side until if finds a comfortable spot to rest against the wall. His eyes close in exhaustion as more of the tension releases it's hold. McG hardly dares to breath himself, willing the man to get a few seconds of peace and quiet. Just a few minutes of rest. He really has no idea when the man last slept.

A few minutes of rest while they wait for the DIA to work up the possible blacksite location is not too much to ask.

Except apparently it is, because far too soon,their comms flare, requesting Dalton go to a private channel and the sleeping man beside him man jumps to alert and sits upright immediately. Its an abrupt end to a peaceful moment and any hope of him resting is now long gone.

Dalton reaches out a hand giving McG's knee a grateful pat, and then uses that same knee to leverage himself up to standing.

He wavers slightly before taking a deep breath, one that goes all the way down.

Top sets his shoulders back and McG watches the man put his game face back on piece by piece, face losing all emotion until just the usual calm, assertive and controlled facade is left. Only then does he key his comm and respond "Go for Dalton."

The pause is over. It's back to the real world now. And McG isn't really a big fan of the real world right now

Dalton drifts away to converse in private. McG grimaces, knowing that that probably means the news he is receiving on the other end of the line is not positive.

If the team has to go home without Jaz, it will be devastating for them all.

Preach, Amir, himself, they will all miss Jaz dearly. A piece of their family will be gone. Their competitive, fiery, brazen, lively, annoying little sister. God, they will miss her.

But he is absolutely terrified at what it will do to Dalton.

If these last 10 hours are any indication, McG is pretty damn sure that it will break him.

The medic can repack his supplies as many times as he wants, but he doesn't have anything in his kit to fix that. There isn't any medicine, any fancy equipment or any amount of breathing techniques that will be able to put their leader back together again if he loses her.


	10. Chapter 10 - Desperate Measures

_Enjoy :)_

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She is sitting on the picnic table out in the the courtyard when he finally finds her.

Wrapped in the navy blue comforter off her bed she looks comfortable and at peace. As if she just decided to stroll out and grab a seat to admire the beautiful pinks and purples the sun is painting across the sky as it peeks out from behind the distant mountains.

But McG's mom always used to chide him _red sky in the morning, sailors take warning_.

She put full faith in that old adage's ability to determine the weather or even sometimes the way the day would unfold, all based on the colours she saw in the horizon.

McG didn't actually need to look skyward for an indication of how this day was going to go.

Admittedly, maybe he was a bit more on edge than normal. A bit paranoid even.

He could readily admit that he and had not been able to settle back to a normal routine yet even though they had escaped Iran with Jaz and made it back to base several days ago.

That was probably why he was up now. Why he had somehow just known something wasn't right and why his brain was screaming at him in alarm as he approached this otherwise idyllic scene.

But something **was** wrong.

He knew it with complete certainty from the moment he woke up way too early this morning. He found himself instantly wide awake and hyperalert and there was no point arguing or trying to convince himself that he was just overreacting. He fully knew he was being ridiculous and yet he still gave in and got up to make the rounds and check on things.

That was when he found her bed empty and really started to panic.

As he approaches his stomach tightens further. What he sees only serves to reinforce that anxious feeling in his gut that has been pretty much a constant since he watched Jaz be dragged out of the hotel in the arms of the quds. Even now that they have her back it won't go away completely.

Maybe that is because the Jaz he knows doesn't get up at 5:00 in the morning to watch the sunrise.

Albeit she has appeared to be quite attached to the outdoors and the wide open sky since they broke her out of that van. Most of the 18 hour drive back from the border to base had involved her sitting silently and staring off into the distance. Regardless, of her new found appreciation for nature, or fresh air, or whatever the hell it was she was doing, he still isn't calmed by finding her here at this time in the morning.

What really concerns him is that she actually looks worse now than she did then. The bruises have deepened in colour, from paint speckling on her cheeks that you could almost ignore because it blended in with her natural freckles... to full defined bruises with multiple colours that rim her eyes and temples.

That was expected. Unfortunately.

Adding to the macabre tapestry, there are also dark bags under her eyes…. They too are also somewhat expected.

After being on guard and fighting for her life for more than 35 hours of captivity (who was counting right?), not to mention the actual mission before that, and the long journey back she was more than ready to crash when they finally got her to a real bed. She has spent a good portion of the last couple days curled up on a bed or a couch per doctor's orders. He hasn't actually even had to try that hard to make it happen. Concussion symptoms and exhaustion had easily won out over her stubbornness.

Unfortunately her rest has not been as peaceful and recuperative as one would've hoped. Her brain had other ideas. And escaping trauma wasn't as easy as an 18 drive, an international border, or saying you are fine a bunch of times. Nightmares have been doing a good job of disrupting her much needed rest. He knows they have been waking her frequently, as much as she pretends they aren't. They have all heard the cries but when they take turns going to check on her they always find her pretending to be asleep. Refusing to admit that she wasn't alright and evidently determined to fight the battle between exhaustion and nightmares on her own as she tried to sleep away the headaches and the bone weary fatigue.

The part he really didn't like was the sweat he sees collecting on her forehead and the flushed cheeks over pale skin. It was cold in the morning air and there was no reason for her to look like that. As he nears the bench he can see she is swaying slightly and it takes the normally perceptive ninja far too long to react to his approach. Her eyes finally turn and sweep over the intruder just before he takes a seat beside her, they are dull and glassy and he swears under his breath.

It takes every ounce of patience and self control he has not to react. Not to freak out and jump straight into medic mode and take control of the situation. She doesn't need that right now, so he forces himself to sit for a few minutes, to take it slow.

But when she shivers against him, he can't resist and he gently reaches out and lets the back of his hand sit against her forehead.

Its hot. Way too hot.

"You gonna make me say it?"

She sighs audibly

"No,... I feel like shit"

Her uncharacteristic admission catches him off guard and its more concerning than all of his other observations combined.

"We need to get you checked out at base hospital. Something isn't right. Could be just a nasty infection causing the fever. We can get you some stronger antibiotics and get ahead of it"

He's careful to make it sound casual, just a quick in and out maybe. Even though he suspects it won't be.

But he isn't fooling anyone. When she looks at him with slightly unfocused eyes, the emotions in them are clear as day and it threatens to sink him.

Those damn eyes, they have a hard time saying no to them right now and she knows it.

The medics who had met them when they finally arrived back at base had been insistent that she needed to stay overnight at least for observation. Jaz had vehemently disagreed with their assessment, the first sign of life they had really seen from her since they pulled her from the van. Until then she had been eerily quiet and had stared off into space with an haunted look that had scared the shit out of him. That spark of fight had been so welcome and so reassuring that he had wavered slightly even though he knew the medics were right.

Jaz had sensed weakness, knew that the battle could be won.

She had turned those eyes on Top next and he had folded like laundry. A fact Preach had been sure to point out later, wisely waiting to do so until after they all had a good sleep and were in better spirits.

They hadn't been able to refuse her anything that day, just so glad to have her back with them. In one piece. Alive. Safe.

She could have asked for the moon and he was pretty sure Adam would have found a rocket ship and a few astronauts and convinced them to go get it.

So avoiding a trip to the hospital… yah she had easily managed that. Once she had Adam on her side McG knew it was a lost cause. He didn't even bother trying to argue.

Jaz settles her head on his shoulder drawing his attention back to the present. He lets her rest there for a second, waiting for her to process his words.

Eventually he feels her nod slightly, head moving against his shoulder, agreeing with his assessment, or at least resigning herself to it. He is caught off guard when she offers more information.

Her voice is so tiny and muffled into his shirt and he almost misses it.

"There was some blood last night"

He stiffens, forcing himself to breathe in and out and count backwards in his head until he is sure he can respond calmly. Trying not to think about the fact that she went to sleep afterwards. That if it had been bad she might not have woken up this morning. But she had. What was done was done. There was no use scolding her about that decision, at least not right now.

"Where? How much?"

She doesn't answer for a second, and his hard won patience wears thin, exasperation and worry sharpening his tone despite his best efforts.

"Jaaaaazzz"

"Just a little….when I went to the bathroom"

Kidneys.

Well that settled it. If there was any doubt about forcing her to go to the hospital before it's gone.

They need some scans to see the extent of that internal bleeding. And regardless she needs stronger antibiotics for the infection that has clearly taken hold. He is kicking himself for not being a hardass about it two days ago. For not insisting she get some scans and xrays, and IV antibiotics. But those damn puppy dog eyes. None of them had had the heart to force her to do anything and so he had given in and treated her himself after the medics left. He had cleaned her wounds, raging internally at the guy who had inflicted them. That animal had deserved worse than a double tap to the head, if only there had been more time. He gave himself a headache from gritting his and clenching his jaw so as not to say anything while he worked on her. She didn't need to carry his baggage too.

If he was honest the infection wasn't really surprising. Even with him disinfecting her cuts on the truck ride and stitching them when they got back, they had still had gone way too long without proper treatment, and that was saying nothing about what kind the sanitation level of the actual tools that had been used. He had her on oral antibiotics but was not entirely surprised that it hadn't been enough. It would have been a miracle if she hadn't had some sort of minor infection at some point in her recovery. Unfortunately they seemed to have skipped past the minor infection phase and gone straight to major. If nothing else he knows it because of her lack of protesting. Her resistance is half hearted and feels almost for show than anything which tells him she is really feeling like crap.

He is not above capitalizing on that though so he makes a move before she can change her mind or build up the energy to fight it. He gently rises up off the table, giving her a second to acclimatize and hold herself steady without his large frame to lean on, before holding out a hand expectantly.

She straightens off the table with a grimace, ignoring his offer of help in favour of keeping one arm wrapped tightly around her bruised ribs and the other securing the blanket on her shoulders. He watches her move, slower and with much less grace than normal, evidently feeling the deep bruises and sore muscles to a greater extent now a few days later. But they get to their destination eventually and he doesn't give her the option of help this time. Sweeping her up and bundling her into the passenger seat of the jeep, blankets and all. He ignores the glare it gets him, and cheerily tells her to stay put before shutting the door and heading back into the hut to grab a few items.

He trusts her not to bolt. Maybe.

If nothing else he knows she won't get far, as morbid as that is.

On his way back out he pops his head into Dalton's room to let the man know what is happening. At the first hint that something is wrong the man is wide awake and throwing on clothes, clearly planning on accompanying them. But McG's next words about going alone catch him up short, one leg into his pants, freezing and hopping in place to catch his balance.

It would be comical under different circumstances, but McG understands the flood of panic coursing through the man all too well. He sees all the emotions fleet across Top's face that their their leader has tried to suppress over the last few days in order to be a calm and grounded support for Jaz. Just between them, in the privacy of his own room, their leader doesn't fight that hard to school them like he normally would.

To have Jaz back feels too good to be true, like the other shoe should be dropping, so he gets how now it feels like it is and why Dalton is going straight to the worst conclusion.

He hurries to reassure Adam but he's pretty sure most of it falls on deaf ears. Eventually though something sinks through and he convinces Top to stay behind. It's probably his attempt at a rational argument that this is what's best for Jaz that she will be less stressed without everyone hovering that makes his case. But he can fully see what it costs Dalton.

How daunting the prospect of any sort of separation from his sniper…. from Jaz... is at this moment.

He leaves behind a promise of constant updates and assurances that he will take care of her. It isn't enough but it's something.

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The base hospital is quiet at this time of day. Even without McG pulling strings she is quickly seen by a doctor, who to his satisfaction, makes short work of examining her and ordering a set of scans and a round of heavy duty antibiotics. Within an hour they are headed to what will be her room to settle in and await the scans being prepped.

It's hard to miss the shudder when the nurse wheels her into her room for the night. One second Jaz is arguing that she doesn't need to be wheeled around like an invalid and the next she is silent. Frozen in her seat like a deer in the headlights facing oncoming traffic.

Except it's just an empty room.

He actually starts to grow concerned until he sees her take one halting breath and then another.

If the nurse notices she doesn't say anything. Continuing on into the room and transferring her suddenly quiet and compliant patient into her bed.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out why. The base hospital has put no effort into decorating or designing anything in the rooms. Instead they are practical and clean. The room is all crisp white sheets, and sterile white walls. As if that's not enough the floors are white, the curtains are white, even the damn bedpan is white. The entire room is stark, and basic and white… and apparently very triggering.

Jaz has been fairly closed off about what was done to her but they all had their suspicions about the type of torture method the Iranians had tried based on the white clothing she had been sporting when they got her back.

Being exposed to something similar, even in a healing environment is clearly taking its toll on her. The machines she is hooked up to betray her anxiety, registering the elevating heart rate and blood pressure for all to see. But even without those he clues into the way she is fidgeting the sheets in her fingers, eyes scanning the room rapidly for threats and throat swallowing uncomfortably, and knows she is far from comfortable with the situation.

McG can feel his blood pressure rising at the realization that he is basically revictimizing her by forcing her to be here to get the help she needs. It pisses him off that they can't protect her from this and once again he regrets killing her captor so quickly. At bare minimum he should have emptied the whole clip into his head. It wouldn't have fixed this but maybe he would feel marginally better about the situation.

Unfortunately there is not much he can do about the situation at this point. The damage is done and he can't erase the trauma as much as he would like to. God he would give anything to take it all back. Sadly all he can do is try to help her cope now so he makes conversation, aiming to distract her from whatever this is dredging up.

It's a struggle, he gets minimal one words responses and he is not really succeeding at all in getting her to disengage from her surroundings and her memories. There is a significant delay to her responses each time where she comes back from wherever her head has taken her back to.

Eventually he gives up on the one sided conversation. Instead he rises from his seat and taps her hip gently, wincing when she jumps at his touch

"Scooch over"

He waits while she slowly shifts over in the bed and then carefully lowers himself onto the space she has created. Trying to avoid bumping her bruises or tangling her lines all while carefully watching her reaction. Jaz normally isn't one for much physical contact. She keeps her barriers up and her tough persona firmly intact 99.9% of the time. But there have been a few times over the years where the hurt has been too big, the emotion too deep, and she has begrudgingly let her walls down and let one of them in to comfort her.

He remembers waking up at 2:30 in the morning the night after Elijah died to her looming by his bedside. Ghostly silent, she had just stood there with tears streaming down her face, seemingly unable to verbalize what she wanted, Hell, maybe she hadn't known herself what she needed, but he had figured it out. Lifting the blanket and making room for her and before he knew it he had a prickly sniper snuggled into his side for the rest of the night and the next several nights after that.

This bed is even narrower than his one at base and his large frame easily eats up more than half of it but Jaz doesn't seem to mind. She turns in slightly to him and lets him wrap his arm around her to draw her close his chest. He tucks his chin onto the top of her head and feels the tremors running through her body.

He waits for an eye roll or a deflecting joke, her way of regaining some control in the situation, but it never comes. Instead he feels one of her hands gather up a fist full of his shirt. Her fingers twist firmly into the fabric pulling tightly in towards her. Then for a few minutes she is still in his arms and he dares to hope that she might relax enough to get some rest. He peeks down, watching her eyes droop lower and lower. They blink heavily but each time she forces them open, fighting it and refusing to give in.

Of course she is.

It's Jaz.

Fighting is her response to pretty much anything. It's more natural to her than most things in life. Her mind is still on high alert and leery of her surroundings and the looming nightmares that have plagued her. Her body, in contrast, is completely against that plan and is exhausted and sick and more than ready to give in.

He supposes it ends a stalemate, because a nurse arrives to take her to radiology.

Their visitor does an admirable job at schooling her surprise when she finds more than just her patient in the bed. McG gives Jaz one last squeeze before he carefullys detangles himself and assists her out of the bed to the waiting wheelchair.

She practically leaps into the normally despised transportation device which speaks volumes to her desire to get out of this room, regardless of the method. And soon they are off to the radiology department.

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The scans confirm what he suspected. Kidney damage. Who ever worked her over knew what they were doing. The bruising patterns and scans of the underlying damage confirm that they had targeted her low back with their blows, specifically the spots over the barely protected kidneys that would be the most debilitating and painful.

Fuck them.

Watching over the technician's shoulder he is happy to see that the internal bleeding is minimal. More a result of severe bruising rather than any sort of laceration. It will be sore for a while and will need to be carefully monitored but it should clear up on its own within a few days.

It does unfortunately confirm that she is stuck here for at least a couple of nights. The antibiotics will need some time to run their course and the doctors will probably want follow up scans to monitor Jaz's kidney function and recovery. No amount of batted eyelashes or puppy dog eyes are going to get her anywhere on this one.

Realistically it's actually not too bad a prognosis, all things considered. But the treatment plan and the need for Jaz to spend several more days in that white sterile room is a problem.

A large one.

He knows exactly how receptive Jaz is to staying in the hospital on any given day… and after seeing that reaction in the room earlier they are beyond that. He is afraid at what the prospect of staying there will do to her right now. Forcing her to stay here in that state will do nothing to aid her recovery.

But leaving is not an option. They already tried that and here they were.

So if she is where she needs to be right now, he will just have to find a way to make it a little bit less of an ordeal for her.

There has to be an alternative….

A way to make that room a little less daunting her for to spend time in…

Finally an idea sparks and he smiles in satisfaction before slipping away quietly to see if he can find that nurse from earlier to chat with.

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He catches backup with Jaz as a different nurse is wheeling her back down the hallway towards the room.

Shockingly (insert sarcasm here), she is still complaining loudly about having to use it, even though she is hunched over and shivering in its seat. McG honestly doubts she could walk the distance if she actually were allowed to but he sure as hell isn't going to be the one to point that out to her. Weakened state or not, he would bet she can still pack a punch.

The trio turns the corner and pulls up to the doorway of her room and he has to work hard to contain his snicker.

It is better than he could have hoped for.

Jaz assesses the situation with a quick dismissive glance and then impatiently tells the nurse it's the wrong room. Some frustration starts to creep into her voice because the ninja looks near the end of her rope and thoroughly unimpressed with this detour.

He blames the fever for the fact that she doesn't immediately get it. Even after the nurse confirms that it is in fact her room for the night Jaz is still not buying it.

She is mid sentence, mid argument really, when it finally clicks.

The lightbulb moment happens and Jaz never finishes her previous train of thought, suddenly and completely speechless.

This time he can't contain his laughter.

The look on her face is everything… and it hits home in startling clarity for about the thousandth time that he almost lost that.

She is gaping at the room and gaping back at him, and then finally manages to form a few spluttering words "Mcg What … how… what did you do…?"

Jaz is rarely at a loss for words but this seems to have done it.

The base hospital has been piloting a pediatric outreach program for the last few months as a part of a goodwill initiative to foster positive relations between the nearby villages and the nations represented on base. On weekends local residents are encouraged to bring their sick children for medical care that they otherwise might not have access too, anywhere from simple vaccines to complex surgeries. The program had been well received and donations and support had poured in enabling the hospital to fully equip itself with the specific pediatric equipment necessary to save lives. The hospital had also been in the comfortable financial position to splurge on a few more "cosmetic" touches to make the kids feel at home, many of which are now gracing Jaz's room.

She glares at the pink sheets on the bed and then sputters when she is wheeled close enough to distinguish the unicorn print pattern that adorns them.

Jaz is not a pink person. Not at all. So this is beyond perfect.

She complains and mutters but eventually sinks into the sheets. Her eyes continue to sweep the room taking in some of the other decorative changes including the excessively large teddy bear in the corner and the TV set that has been set up and is currently half way through frozen. He watches her eyes light up slightly when they catch sight of the video game equipment stored beneath the TV set before she is momentarily distracted by the nurse reconnecting her IV. Then it is back to rolling her eyes when she notices the IV needle is hidden by a mickey mouse patch that goofily smiles back at her almost mockingly.

It's absolutely perfect.

She settles a bit deeper into the bed, relaxing into the pillow and letting McG pull the pink covers up without further complaint.

It's a complete 180 from earlier. Now the only sign of agitation is the occasional muttered comment that he catches about not liking fucking unicorns and how sexist the colour pink is. She is midway through sarcastically asking for a barbie doll to cuddle when she falls asleep. The fever and antibiotics and overall exhaustion literally catch up to her mid-word and she is out like a light.

Mission accomplished. For now anyways. He isn't naive enough to believe he won't have to literally sit on her at some point over the next couple days to get her to follow doctors orders once she starts to feel better.

The team wastes no time in taking the mickey out of her when they arrive to visit in the early evening. Amir and Preach leap at the chance to point out that it was probably just an honest mistake and that they thought she was a child. Or that maybe there is a height requirement for the equipment. Anyone under 5'4 automatically gets the pediatric size stuff.

Jaz flips them the bird before challenging them to a race on mario kart and then all jokes are forgotten and things get serious.

Speaking of serious, McG turns to the still silent man next to him. Top is studying the machines intently, while trying to pretend he isn't, and the medic takes pity on him.

"Her temperature is down slightly and she is responding well to the antibiotics".

Top gives a small smile in response. It a little forced, and a far cry from the boyish grin that they are accustomed to. The one that spreads up through his whole face and makes him look far younger than his years except for the crinkled lines around his eyes.

McG can't blame him though. Jaz may wear her scars visibly right now, but none of them are fully healed yet.

"It's just a small setback, she is going to be alright".

 _We all are._

That last part goes unsaid. But McG thinks it bears repeating even just to himself as they all struggle to find a new post Tehran normal. Sometimes the most difficult thing to do is accept that things won't ever be the same again. That there is a new normal you have to adapt to now whether you like it or not. It doesn't really matter if you preferred the way things used to be. They are what they are now. Their team has to move on. It's what they do, even if it is a bit more difficult this time around.

He turns and watches Jaz crow victoriously as she crosses the finish line miles ahead of the either of her competitors. Her smile is genuine and easy as she mocks their driving ability. There is no hint of stress or fear on that face right now making this all very worth it.

Not that the price to pay was actually all that high if he is honest with himself. He will more than enjoy getting to take Nurse Rebecca out for dinner later in the week once things settle down. So really this is a win all around and God knows you take those where you can get them in their line of work.


	11. Chapter 11 - Grounded

The team sidles out of the cage quickly sensing the impending explosion.

They all knew it was coming.

The only reason the elephant in the room had been avoidable so far was that they hadn't gotten a call out since they returned from Iran.

Up until now they could try to pretend that all was normal and they were just on a long break between missions.

It wasn't true. But sometimes it was nice to live in denial.

Maybe it won't be as bad as they think. Maybe Jaz will take the news that Top looks like he is about to break better than expected.

"You CANT be serious"

Never mind.

Her immediate and loud tone of incredulity says otherwise. Hell, Top hadn't even gotten the words out before her temper was flaring.

Jaz wasn't dumb. She knew what protocol was and she saw him coming a mile away. His slight hesitation upon approach betraying that he wasn't just entering the gun cage to grab some ammo.

She knows exactly what the issue is.

McG looks around and sees Amir and Preach surreptitiously exiting the area alongside him.

This omega team is filled with strong, capable, brave warriors.

And these brave capable warriors definitely weren't scurrying away from the icy venom in her tone and the explosiveness they knew was bottled up within.

They definitely weren't afraid of being caught in the crossfire and pulled into the argument.

No, they were just retreating a bit to give Jaz and Top some space, some well deserved privacy of course.

Yeah that was it.

He catches Amir's eye as he pulls his bag off the counter and slings it over his shoulder to finishing packing outside. The CIA operative lets out a low, almost soundless whistle and he nods in agreement.

Yep, this is going to be ugly.

Preach, to his right, just shakes his head slowly but says nothing as he exits slowly behind the pair of them. He is quiet now but McG is willing to bet he is busy prepping a a few words for later. They likely will be deep and metaphorical and barely make sense and yet also make all the sense in the world.

As they reconvene in the kitchen he realizes that he can now barely make out the dull rumble of Top and Jaz arguing. He can hear the edge to their tone and gets the impression sharp words are being exchanged its surprisingly restrained and it hasn't risen out of control like he kind of expected. Usually when those two go at it you can hear every word for miles even if you aren't trying to.

Conflict is actually a fairly rare thing on their team.

Adam does a good job at fostering a healthy environment between his operators. Maybe better than any CO McG has ever served under.

But Jaz is Jaz.

She is fiery and passionate and blunt and is the epitome of what people mean when they say someone who wears their heart on their sleeve.

All those things make her someone to be reckoned with in the field but they also occasionally lead to fireworks. He can think of an occasion or two where Adam hasn't found the right words to get through to his sniper. For example, there was a steep learning curve when she first joined the team, both for her and for them. Back before the groundwork of trust and open communication had been laid there had been a couple of times where things had gotten misconstrued and bottled up until they had blown up and gotten heated and loud.

Given time and space things normally cool off and are fine. And he expects this will be one of those times but really there probably was no winning for Adam in this scenario. No matter how he framed it, what words he used, Jaz was never going to like the answer that she had to stay behind on this mission. No matter how he said it he was going to be the bad guy.

Unfortunately they were always going to have to cross this bridge at some point in her recovery unless the world stopped turning and all the evil in the world decided to take a conveniently timed hiatus.

A part of him wishes it had actually come sooner, as counter intuitive as that seems.

It might not have been as tough a pill for Jaz to swallow when she was still really feeling the effects of her torture. When she had been on copious painkillers and moving around like a grandma at the beginning even she probably would have admitted that she wasn't able to go. He knew for a fact that she would never go on a mission if she thought she would endanger her teammates by being less than on top of her game.

But now she was on the upswing. Bruises healing, stiffness relaxing, more energy, they can all tell she is starting to feel better. She has even started to train under a few restrictions. And now obviously she is feeling well enough to believe that she could handle a mission. Whether or not that is true… she believes it. And what is more after being under the microscope for 2 weeks, being the one that everyone is fussing over, and being treated like she might break and worst it all being the one that had to be rescued, you know she is dying to get back out there and prove that she can handle herself.

So, yah…. Good luck with that Top.

Sometimes rank has its privileges. This is not one of those times.

Sure enough the cage door slams and a blur of black hair and black clothes brushes by them before pushing aggressively through the hut flaps to the outdoors.

A few seconds later Top follows, coming to rest with the rest of the team in the kitchen and looking weary like he just returned from a mission rather than preparing to go out on one.

There is an awkward silence. Everyone feeling unsure if they are supposed to commiserate with him or pretend not to have heard what is going on.

"Wheels up in 20" he finally says kurtly

Ok. Ignoring it it is.

McG finishes arranging his last few medical supplies and zips the kit up while surveying Top out of the corner of his eye.

He can see the man is perturbed with how things went. It's unlikely he wants to head out on a mission leaving things on that note. The man keeps eyeing the direction she disappeared into as if he wants wants to go out there and try to finish the conversation, see if he can smooth over the hurts and miscommunications that occured.

But Dalton is also a master tactician and if Mcg had to guess the man knows his presence won't be entirely welcome right now. Knows that she probably needs some space from him and that she is too fired up and too hurt too have a rational discussion. What is more she needs someone to blame right now, and Top is it.

McG shares his concern though and doesn't want to leave without checking on the brooding sniper. Healthwise he is sure she will be fine when they are gone. But leaving her here fuming and stewing isn't the best idea and he wouldn't put it past her to do something stupid that will jeopardize her recovery all in the name of trying to prove that she was ready for the mission.

"Wheels up in 20?" he says as a question, testing the waters as he looks meaningfully at the door that the fiery sniper just exited through.

He feels Dalton run an appraising eye over him and knows the man understands what he is actually asking.

After a long second he gets a nod "Yep. Loading in 15."

His posture is relaxed and McG figures thats a good as a go ahead so he grabs his gear and follows her path outside.

He finds her sitting not far from the hut in one of the beat up lawn chairs that they have out in the yard. She isn't alone though, someone has already beat him to it to it, or something anyways. He can't help but crack a smile as he sees Patton returning from fetching a ball that Jaz threw for him.

The dog is panting in the early morning heat and his tongue is lolling out the side of his mouth around the ball at a weird angle. It's obvious this isn't the first time he has chased it down and that Jaz's anger has fueled some good long runs for him.

Patton doesn't seem to have any complaints about the situation and promptly returns the ball to her feet and backs away, tail wagging, sides heaving, and front end dipping in playful anticipation of the next throw.

But Jaz doesn't seem to be paying attention to their game anymore. She is ignoring the dog in favour of staring off into the distance at the Jeep that is parked waiting to take the team to the airpad. Patton gives a small whine and shuffles around nudging the ball with his nose so that it rolls closer to her feet.

After a few seconds he takes things up a notch, refusing to be ignored or deterred. The persistent mutt picks up the ball again and walks closer lifting his head and tilting it just so to deliver the green fuzzy ball directly into her lap and then backing away eagerly certain she will now have to throw it.

The deposit of what McG knows from experience is a very dirty and probably slightly moist ball into her lap finally gets Jaz's attention and she glares at the stubborn dog who stares back imploringly, demanding just one more throw. Jaz loses the staring contest giving in with a half hearted grumble that has a hint of a chuckle and ends with a partial smile. She swats the ball off her lap effectively giving the dog what he wants and he scampers away to chase it down.

McG takes that as his cue and closes the gap grabbing a seat beside her on the ground. With the height difference between them he is practically shoulder to shoulder with her even though she is slightly raised in the lawn chair.

Her face sours quickly, his presence breaking the spell and reminding her of the rest of the team and what they are about to do. It ruins any cheer that Patton managed to garner with his antics.

Surprisingly he doesn't have to work hard to get her to start a conversation. Without any prompting and within seconds she happily shares her feelings on the matter.

"This sucks"

"Yep", that he can readily agree with

It sure does.

"Seriously though, I don't need to be coddled or babied. If I say I'm ready to go then I'm ready to go." She grabs the ball that Patton has pushed into her lap again, standing up to pace.

"It's time for me to get back out there. I don't need to be grounded."

As if to prove her point she turns and launches the ball far into the distance and then continues pacing, anger bleeding into a frenetic energy that pulses through her body. Her steps and arm movements speak volumes of her pent up agitation with the situation.

For the most part Jax has kept her emotions about her captivity and her recovery tightly under wraps since being back, but there have been a few occasions where she has snapped and things have expanded outwards

Patton returns and she launches the ball again before turning back to face the medic.

"He just thinks I'm weak. Everyone thinks I'm weak. You all had to come save me and now he is just like every other CO I've ever had. Worried about protecting the helpless female."

She spits the last words out in disgust as her anger takes a sharp detour from the situation to one specific target. It's easier to be mad at an individual than at the circumstances. What has happened is messy and complex. He imagines it's simpler to blame one person on the surface than delve deeper.

The few times her emotions have rippled outwards this past week she has taken it out on one teammate or another. Each of them taking it in stride as a part of her recovery process and trying not to taking it personally.

"You know, he could bend that rule if he wanted to… so he must not want to."

She stares at him expectantly and he realizes he isn't going to get by without a response here.

She wants him to justify her anger.

He gives a shrug and offers a non committal "Maybe"

but that just gets him an eye roll. She is not willing to let him slide with that kind of cop out.

The medic sighs internally, giving up on his hopes of just letting her vent her frustration to him and calling it a day.

"Ok yah. Maybe he could."

He can tell that his agreement appeases her because she gives a snort of derision. Half vindicated, half further annoyed.

Jaz stares off into the distance, watching where Patton has settled to chew on the ball. McG isn't sure if its because the dog needed a break in the heat, or if the mutt is smart enough to recognize the potential volatility of this conversation and is giving them a wide berth for now.

He probably should take a lesson from their self appointed team dog. If he was smart he would let her rant herself out, tell her what she wants to hear and be done with it. But for some reason now that he has opened his mouth he can't seem to shut it. There is some part of him that knows that just patronizing her isn't really going to help her in the long run. They've all been pusssy footing around her for the last couple weeks but If she feels she is good to go then she is also good to start hearing the truth rather than just what will make her feel better.

So he takes a deep breath and continues his train of thought...

"But maybe he isn't ready to..."

He can feel the heat of her gaze intensify with each word and he can see another tirade brewing so he hurries to get his next words out before the storm hits.

"Maybe none of us are ready to….. Jesus Jaz. We almost lost you.. . And it wasn't easy being on that side of the coin either. Things got pretty dark for a bit there."

His blunt admission knocks the wind out of her sails for a second. He can actually see her argument die on her lips just as she opens her mouth to launch it.

Instead she swallows it back, eying him speculatively. And for a second he knows she understands what he is talking about.

He sees a brief glimpse of the Jaz they rescued in that tunnel in Iran. The beaten and bewildered one who clearly hadn't thought she was ever going to see them again. The one who couldn't seem to comprehend the fact that she was somehow being rescued against all odds rather than being carted off to more torture and certain death.

But then he sees the shutters slam back up. The mask straightens and the hint of vulnerability disappears behind a wall of dismissiveness and determination.

She shakes her head vehemently and argues back "but you didn't. End of story. It's time to move on... Top needs to let me move on"

He isn't sure whether she is trying to convince herself or him that she is truly ready to get past this the whole thing and be done with it.

But as if to prove her point she turns to go, starting off in the direction of the dog to recover the ball.

He isn't willing to let her escape that easily. To let her package all the emotions and feelings and vulnerabilities into a neat little box, cram the lid on, tuck it in the closet and walk away without looking back.

Trivializing what she went through like that, what they all went through, isn't the answer. And her determination to take that approach makes him frustrated enough that without thinking he reaches out a hand to grab her arm. His long arms catch her mid stride, halting her momentum just when she thinks she is free and clear. She freezes under his grip and he feels the tension shoot through her body, instantly telling him he'd made a tactical mistake. You don't startle a ninja. Especially a ninja already on edge.

She wheels around and he braces for impact, ready for the punch he probably deserves, but it surprisingly never comes. Jaz somehow manages to stop herself mid swing and instead of a fist to the face he catches sight of the slew of emotions that race across her face as she pulls back. Surprise. Anger. Fear. Frustration, Panic.

He kicks himself. He should have known better than to startle her despite all her assertions that she is fine. Although if anything this just proves his point. This isn't something to be trivialized. The effects are there whether she wants them to be or not.

She tries to shrug out of his grip. Cheeks tinting in embarrassment as she renews her efforts to pull away.

He lets go quickly allowing her to get some distance from him and take a few shuddering breaths as she tries to regain her composure.

The medic is hit with a pang of guilt at her visceral reaction, but he steels himself knowing if he lets the subject drop now there likely won't be another opportunity to finish this conversation, she will make sure of that. So instead he softens his voice and presses forward determinedly.

"Did anyone tell you how we found you?"

"Yah. You guys outed me. Stopped the van. I remember most of it." Her answer comes quickly and with a small measure of exasperation. Clearly not understanding where he is going with this subject.

"No, I don't mean how we broke you out, I mean how we found out _where_ you were being held."

That stops her up short. Clearly surprised to find a gaping hole in her understanding of the events.

She has done some fact finding over the last couple weeks, casually slipping a few questions in here and there to find out how things had unfurled on their end after they were separated. But to his knowledge she hasn't thought to ask about that particular detail. He could also say with pretty good certainty that none of the team had offered up those details unsolicited, all preferring to ignore that particular part of the story and their roles in it as much as possible.

Jaz sits down now, deep in thought and apprehensive at the way this conversation has veered in an unexpected direction. Patton apparently senses the cease fire and approaches with his ball, dropping the drool covered mess into her lap where it is categorically ignored.

The silence stretches as McG thinks, trying to choose his words carefully before he begins. Jaz in turn remains still and silent, studying him intently, trying to decipher what she is missing and where this is all going. Patton grows impatient first, breaking the stalemate first and crowding in towards Jaz and nosing the ball up higher onto her lap in hopes that she will notice it.

When that doesn't work the persistent dog grabs the ball out of her lap and brings it over to try McG as the next weak link, dropping the ball unceremoniously at the medics feet and looking expectantly at him.

McG gives in, bending over to grab the ball and bouncing it off the hot cement a few times, making the slobbery ball squelch and leave wet marks on the ground as it rebounds back up. It allows him to stall for a few more seconds before he finally begins.

"Hussein had a contact..." he starts off hesitantly, not missing her small wince at mention of the deceased man. Jaz may pretend to be over things but he knows that one still hurts. They have all avoided mentioning him as much as possible so far. Trying not to emphasize the fact that a life was was lost to make her rescue possible.…. But hey, she was over it right? So it was fair game now and he somewhat ruthlessly ignored her discomfort and carried on.

"The guy was apparently ex quds. So we went to see him but he wouldn't play ball, at least he wouldn't until Top put a bullet in his femur. Threatened to let him bleed out right there in the middle of the floor."

His voice wavered slightly and he turned away for a second, raising an arm to shield the sunlight so that he could see something other than the blood sprayed across the plastic sheeting at the construction site.

"And you know Top doesn't bluff either. He was willing to do it in a heartbeat. I don't think I've ever seen him like that. Not sure I ever want to again."

He clears his throat before continuing

"So yah. The guy gave us the location…. I patched him up so he probably wouldn't bleed out and we left him there."

He winds up and tosses the ball as far as he can. Squinting into the distance as he tracks the delighted dog's pursuit of the projectile for a second before finally turning back to face her.

"Mission accomplished...Whatever it takes right? Just business as usual or whatever."

It comes out slightly less convincing than he intended, a slight hint of bitterness tinting his otherwise light hearted summation.

He can see the shock on her face as she conceptualizes this new element, what had been done behind the scenes on her behalf. She knew about the risks they had taken but not about the lines they had toed and especially not about the ones they had unapologetically obliterated in their quest to get her back.

"So yah...You may be over things but I sure am not. I'm trying my best to get there. We all are. But it's a big ask so maybe you gotta have some patience with us."

Awkward silence hangs when he finishes. Both of them surprised at what came out of his mouth, both of them needing a little time to process. The medic throws a few more long bombs for the dog, ignoring the feel of her pensive gaze watching him closely.

Before either of them can figure out what to say next the rest of the team exists the bunker, heading in the direction of the transport and time is up.

McG tosses the ball into her lap, and quirks his mouth into something that resembles what he hopes is a convincing smile. "You gonna be okay"

She mirrors his attempt at levity "Yah..Patton and I will hold down the fort, just don't blame me if all the good food is gone when you get back"

He knows she doesnt mean it. That she would give anything to be heading out with them but at he appreciates her making the effort.

"Alright well we will see you soon, hopefully… I mean Top might have to put Amir on overwatch so pray for me."

That gets a more genuine chuckle but he still hesitates to leave her.

" Alright get out of here before you get in trouble" Jaz reads his inner turmoil, waving him off. When he still doesn't move, she cocks her arm back and gives him a more sinister grin, threatening to huck the ball at his head.

He laughs and playfully shields himself, finally moving away in deference to her respectable skills with any projectile, even a green tennis ball.

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He gets to the jeep just as the others are finishing loading up. His bags are quickly deposited but when he goes to slide into the seat he finds an outstretched arm blocking his entry.

Tracing his eyes up the appendage he makes eye contact with Top, who remains silent, and he seems undecided if he actually wants to voice the concerns that are blatantly obvious in the tight knit of his forehead and the extra crinkles around his eyes.

McG is just about to take pity on the man and blink first when Top finally just gives in and asks the question.

"She good?"

The medic struggles to find an appropriate answer to that. The weighty conversation. The insecurities laid bare on both sides still swirling in his mind. He also always has to walk the fine line between keeping confidentiality when possible and sharing what's needed with the team CO for team safety.

"Don't think she is going to burn the place down or anything but I can't guarantee she won't teepee your bunk while we are gone."

Adam smirks but keeps his arm there.

McG holds his gaze for another long second before trying again, this time with a little more sincerity "Yah, Top she's good."

Jaz was good, physically at least. Remarkably good considering the little time that had passed since her captivity.

Whether or not Top was, or the rest of the team…

And her relationship with their CO, well that was a whole other kettle of fish he wasn't even remotely qualified to offer an opinion on.

Adam gives him a knowing look and sighs, removing his arm bar and finally allowing the medic entry to the vehicle.

"I'll talk to her when we get back."

McG clasps him on the shoulder and ducks his head under the roll bar, sliding into his seat where Preach and Amir give him matching knowing grin. He offers a relieved smile in return and relaxes back against the seat. It's rare that he is looking forward to a mission as a chance to recover from base life but right now a nice long plane ride to colombia doesnt seem so bad.

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 _Apologies for the delay in updating this. I had this chapter 75% written and then just never got around to finishing it. My only excuse is that summer happened. A busy busy busy summer. But didn't want to leave it unfinished so here we are. Hope it is worth the wait._

 _I am still working on an idea for the final episode but I think it will probably be Dalton's turn to need the medic again._


	12. Close to Home (1 & 2)

McG doesn't want to go back in

He finds himself still standing for far too long outside the hospital room carefully balancing a tray of four rapidly cooling coffees and four supposedly cranberry bran muffins. The weight of the beverages is starting to cause his wrist to cramp, a very painful reminder of just how long he has been dawdling there instead of heading inside. He has already studied every inch of the walls outside the room. Carefully observed and noted this ward's weekly nurse rotation and read through the specific schedule and instructions for patient care.

But mostly he has found his gaze drawn to the name on the door - Ezekiel Carter.

Peach's real name gets used so infrequently that it's easy to pretend that it isn't actually him the label is referring to.

Except it is.

And that fact is exactly why he is rooted to this spot, shamefully and undeniably reluctant to re-enter and stand vigil at his fallen teammates side. Preach was why he had left in the first place anxious to find something to be useful at, anything to be useful at. The reason he had been unable to sit in that room another second just watching that damn pump force air into the Preacher's non-functioning lungs. He had found it completely unbearable to spend another second doing nothing and just hoping for another erratic heartbeat to register on the monitor.

Normally, McG handles these kinds of situation better. It isn't even remotely close to the first time a teammate has been injured on his watch. Yet for some reason this one really knocked him off kilter and sent him reeling as surely as if he had been in the blast radius with Preach.

He found it weirdly discomforting that the explosion occurred so close to home. Not in the middle of nowhere. Not in some foreign country or in the midst of a war zone like they were accustomed to.

Literally in their home.

He should have found relief in that because it meant that Preach had been able to get the best medical care possible within mere minutes. A luxury that was practically non-existent in their line of work. It was also probably the only reason the man had survived to this point.

But for his part it put him thoroughly out of his element and he found himself irrationally wishing that it had actually happened out in the field. At least there he could have done something to help. He could have done his job and been able to sit here afterwards knowing he did everything he could to make sure his teammate survived and made it back to get the care he needed. But this time he had done nothing for Preach except leave him all alone with a mad man to get blown up. They all had. And they all had been unable to do anything for him after, relegated to the sidelines as the base paramedics took control. Left to do nothing but make their way to the hospital and wait, and wonder, and wait, and wonder some more.

How much smoke had Preach inhaled?

What degree burns did he have?

Over what percentage of his body?

McG had done nothing and therefore knew nothing about the man's condition either apart from the quickest of glances before the ambulance doors slammed shut.

These were just some of the questions that had plagued the medic as he sat in the hard plastic chair in the waiting room with his overactive imagination conjuring every possible injury and outcome based on a standard blast trauma. The wait for an update had been long and agonizing giving him way, way too much time to think. It was actually impressive how quickly he had cycled through different scenarios and prognosis, each a little bleaker than the previous one. The pragmatic side of his brain repeatedly stomping on that small, resilient part that wants to be hopeful and imagine a rosier alternative or a less bleak outcome.

In those seemingly endless hours he would have given anything to just know what was going on. Because surely the absence of information had to be worse than having the facts and being able to adjust his expectations more accurately.

Or not.

He was so wrong.

He knew that now.

This was worse. Way worse

Because now he knows exactly how bad it is.

And it's bad.

There is no living in ignorance anymore. Or allowing himself to indulge in a fairytale ending for just a few minutes about how maybe things will turn out alright. This isn't the hollywood film or made for tv show where the hero walks away from a blast relatively unscathed and has the happy reunion.

No, the living, barely, breathing proof is in front of him and it was exactly as bad as he had feared. And he can not stand to look at it. Can't stand to see his strong, powerful, unflappable teammate reduced to a shell of himself, completely reliant on machines and even then possibly still losing the battle.

So instead he had tried to focus on the medicine. Catching up on his charts, obsessively checking the machinery and the printouts and the monitors. But that wasn't much better because he better than anyone knew just how bad those numbers were. How much of a fight the man had ahead of him. And how powerless he was to help his friend.

It was that helplessness that drove him to leave to go try and do something useful. There was nothing he could do for Preach so he had gone in search of coffee and food for his teammates. A tangible way to help, given that none of them would be leaving anytime soon tonight, doctors suggestion be damned. Jaz and Amir… and Dalton if (when) he returns should get some food in their system even if they didn't feel like it. And the need for coffee, well that was pretty self explanatory.

Sighing, he takes one last breath and leans slightly forward to trigger the sensor for the automatic door. It opens with a hiss and there is nothing left to do but take the step across the threshold. So he finally takes it, and then another and another heading pointedly in the spy's direction and focused on the smaller man in the chair rather than the one in the bed.

He comes to a stop directly in front of Amir, but the CIA operative's position doesn't change, head remaining heavily at rest on his hands, leaning forward in the chair with his elbows on his legs. The spy continues to stare in the direction of the hospital bed even though McG's large frame, is now directly obscuring his line of sight. After a second or two, when it becomes clear that whatever Amir is looking at may not actually be in this room, the medic carefully extricates one of the coffee cups and waves it in front of his face a few times. On the third swing Amir finally snaps back with a subtlety he has come to expect from with his newest teammate. With barely so much as a blink, the spy's eyes come back into focus and lock onto the coffee cup dancing in his face and he reaches out to grab it with a grateful smile.

"Thanks McG"

McGuire returns what he hopes passes for a smile, before pulling out his own coffee from the tray and settling into the seat beside Amir.

Amir quirks an eyebrow, and gives a slight smirk at the two remaining cups left unclaimed in the tray McG deposits on the side table.

McG grimaces ruefully, and waves vaguely in their direction "figured we better double Jaz up"

They both know its a lie.

And they both know it was a fool's errand to think that Dalton would be back anytime soon. The coffee will be long cold before he is back to drink it.

Whatever he had left them to do, and they all had some idea of what that was, it would likely take many hours. Days even.

But Jaz he hadn't expected to go far.

"Where did she head off to anyways?" he asks aloud.

Now it is Amir's turn to grimace, expression souring as he answers the question "She went to call Preach''s wife"

McG struggles to swallow the sip of coffee he just took. Grief tightens his throat thinking about Preach's wife picking up this particular phone call only to have her whole world come crashing down. Then it takes a couple of swings at his stomach when he imagines her trying to find a way to break the news to their kids.

He places his still full cup back in the tray, decidedly done with it.

There is silence for a while, save the incessant noise of the machines, and after a few minutes McG runs out of things to look at other than the obvious in the middle of the room. So finally he gives in and allows himself to look in that direction but trains his gaze on the machines surrounding the bed instead. Conscientiously studying the digital numbers, watching the fluids drop down the tubes drip by drip. After what feels like his 400th visual sweep of Preach's cardio monitor Amir finally speaks again.

"You think he will come back?"

At first McG thinks they are still talking, or rather not talking, about Dalton going dark. However when he tears his eyes away from the machines and sees what Amir is back to staring at it becomes clear that their leader isn't who he is referencing.

Like usual Amir is already a few steps ahead of the situation. He has already decided that Preach is going to live. Or maybe he is just ignoring the possibility that he might not, and has moved on to what his injuries means for the future. He is already considering the possibility that this damage might end Preach's career and what that means for their team unit going forward.

"I don't know… he was getting pretty close to that age anyways. He might just want to spend more time at home."

McG actually finds it comforting right now to picture Preach convalescing at home and then formally retiring and spending his days with his wife and beautiful children in the Californian sun. Coaching them at soccer, taking them to the mall and spoiling them rotten with new clothes, going to church as a family on sunday mornings. He will take that outcome right about now.

Amir doesn't seem to share his opinion on that being an acceptable option. He looks disappointed by McG's answer for a second before his typical mask shutters in into place just like it does on missions. His voice is clinical when he finally responds.

"Well he will be hard to replace. His skill sets are valuable and it will be a challenge for you guys to find someone with similar abilities."

If McG didn't know better he would think Amir was talking about just another one of his assets. He is calm and emotionless like he is offering a tactical assessment of some non related issue that he is studying from afar. It also doesn't go unnoticed that he appears to have removed himself from the equation too. Referencing the team as a separate entity rather than something that he is a part of.

It's almost like he had reverted back to the same cold, detached CIA operative that first arrived at their barracks. The one that kept to himself, divulged little and rubbed Jaz entirely the wrong way every time he did open his mouth. For most of the first few months it felt like he had one foot in the door and the other in his old life, ready to cut bait and run at the first opportunity. McG had honestly been surprised some mornings when the man came down for breakfast, half expecting him to have stolen away in the night.

Once they made an effort to get to know him, or at least Preach and McG had. It had been readily apparent that there were many layers to the man. Many painful things buried down deep and powerful emotions ruling most things he did. And over time Amir had shared a bit with them. Learned to function in a team environment, to trust them and let them carry some of the burden alongside him. He liked to think they had taught the spy how to be part of a family, that they could do more together and the operative had finally embraced that concept. Unfortunately they were paying the price of that camaraderie right now. Facing a disruption to their stable nucleus. And maybe Amir was finding it easier to go back to being detached. To pretend not to care so much. To imagine that he could escape and go back to his old life working solo and not have to feel what he was feeling right now.

McG couldn't fault him for that. For however he wanted to cope. If the man wanted to pretend for a little while it might not be the healthiest thing but he wasn't going to judge today. That said, it didn't mean he had to make it easy for the man to distance himself either. So he slings an arm around Amir's shoulders. "Well whoever the replacement is. There is one positive"…. He waits until he is sure Amir is actually listening. "At least you won't be the new guy anymore. And you can watch and sympathize from a far as whoever it is deals with the wrath of Khan".

He gets a small snicker for that. But it's not quite as big as he was hoping for given what he thought was a pretty awesome star trek pun He sighs internally… not everyone appreciates his genius.

Regardless, his point is that whatever changes come, Amir is still be a part of the team, nothing has to change there. He hopes the former spy at least picked up on that.

There is a comfortable silence for another minute or two and McG is on his second sweep of Preach's vitals when Amir finally speaks again.

"You know I didn't peg you for a sci-fi fan McG..."

The medic grins, "Oh thank god, you did get it! I thought maybe your butler didn't let you watch Star Trek or something. Talk about a deprived childhood."

Amir lets out a suffering sigh, accompanied by a familiar put up on eye roll "We didn't have a butler McG. We had a cook. Big difference."

"Po-tay-to, po-tah-to."

The medic stands and stretches, ready to move on and go check in on Jaz. "Well obviously some things never change. You still get waited on hand and foot, coffee deliveries and all…. On that note I better go find Jaz before her coffee gets too cold or I won't get a good tip. Us poor people got to work for a living you know."

"Har Har"

Amir's words are dripping with fond exasperation and as McG pulls Jaz's coffee out of the tray the smaller man raises his cup in thanks before pivoting back towards the bed to resume his vigil.

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McG finds the ninja a few hallways down, pacing as she talks quietly on the phone.

He observes from a distance, giving her time and space to finish up the call. When she finally does he watches as she leans heavily against the wall and then slides bonelessly down until she is sitting on the floor. She brings her hands up to her face, the phone still clasped between her fingers is pressed into her lips, as if she can hold in whatever words or emotions want to escape next.

He waits a few seconds, and then approaches, sliding down the wall to join her in what is apparently becoming his patented move.

Just as he goes to open his mouth she holds up a finger in a crystal clear gesture that says give me a minute.

So McG just hands her the coffee and waits. He sits patiently while she takes a couple sips and then places it on the ground beside her. He doesn't comment when she leans into him, shoulder coming to rest against his. And likewise pretends he can't feel her body shaking through the contact point, or tell that she is using sniper breathing techniques to try to ground herself.

Finally when he feels her relax slightly, he asks gently

"How did she take it?"

His question is instantly met by red rimmed eyes and a clear _are you an idiot_ look.

Okay he deserved that. That was a dumb question.

He shouldn't be surprised to see that the predominant emotion bubbling at the surface for her is anger. He didn't know why he had assumed she was battling to compose herself because she was devastated from the call. He should know better with their fiery sniper. She lashes out. She fights back. Preferring to stay mad rather than to allow herself to feel grief or despair.

He sighs and takes a deep breath because honestly he has no idea what to say. Clearly.

There is no way to make this situation better. Her anger is well deserved.

He doesn't know what to say about Dalton. He is mad about that too.

And he sure as hell doesn't know what to say about what Hoffman did to Preach. Because … Fuck.

He also doesn't have a way to erase the damage that's just been done to Preach's beautiful family. The trauma and uncertainty that Jaz was just forced to unleash into their world.

Maybe he is off his game. Floundering just as much as anyone and no use to the team when they need him most. Who they really need right now is Preach. He would have known exactly what to say.

Unexpectedly Jaz throws him a line.

"I shouldn't have had to make that call."

He breathes out a heavy sigh, "No, no you shouldn't have"

"I'm going to kill him."

He can't help but laugh softly at that declaration. At the heat she manages to put in it even as a few tears leak out and betray her attempt at a hard exterior. He has a suspicion most of her anger towards their CO is probably overcompensation for some other feelings they all pretend don't exist between the pair. That there is a reason she is extra worried, sorry "mad," about him going off on his own. But now is so not the time to broach that subject.

So this time he the throws her a bone and doesn't question it.

"Me too... After I make sure he is in one piece" He adds as an afterthought.

Jaz looks at him incredulously. And then a snorts with amusement.

"God he is an idiot."

"Amen to that sister." He channels his most devout, reverent church voice, mimicking the parishioners at the church his mom used to drag him to every sunday.

His impression makes Jaz full on snicker, and he joins her in letting a dry chuckle escape. It feels wrong, but also feels kinda good and before he knows it they are both somewhat laughing, shoulders shaking side by side for a different reason this time. It continues on for a good couple minutes. Each time one manages to stop the other starts again. And if there are a few tears streaming down their cheeks mixed in with the hilarity they both pretend not to notice. It's therapeutic or some crap like that.

A few nurses walk by and their reactions to the scene run the gamut from confusion to pity. There is one clearly who clearly thinks they are crazy. Another looks a little scandalized by their antics, and seems to be biting her tongue not to scold them. The last one who passes doesn't even seem at all phased by them. The still somewhat rational part of McG's brain can appreciate that two individuals sitting on the floor, dressed in all black fatigues, hysterically laughing and hysterically crying all at the same time probably should have garnered at least some sort of reaction. But maybe she has just seen it all before. The thought that other people have looked as ridiculous as they probably do right now makes him laugh even harder.

The next person who walks by doesn't react to them either. Except this person isn't wearing scrubs and McG knows that stride anywhere.

It sobers him up immediately.

Dalton is back.

Jaz stiffens next to him. Her laughter dying out as well. Anger rehardening her features. Now that he is back and apparently in one piece she can just be straight angry with him for a few minutes. He can feel the heat of her glare from beside him as she tracks their leader's movements.

He doesn't even acknowledge their presence or her glare, which is concerning on several levels. Usually Top is completely in tune with his surroundings. Even more so with knowing where his teammates are. And he definitely should have picked up on the possible threat coming from the very hostile military age female staring at him with a look that promises retribution. Right now though, Dalton is oblivious to any of that and is solely focused on his mission of getting to Preach.

Well he is about to get an unscheduled interruption to that operational plan because the medic launches into action, pushing himself up off the wall and setting an intercept course. He is not as willing as Jaz to take the fact that their CO has returned as proof that he is actually in one piece. The man has been doing God knows what for the past 8 hours and is not particularly good at taking care of himself at the best of times. Never mind when his head is who knows where.

He times it perfectly, coming in from the side and stepping in front of Dalton. The man is forced to pull up at the last second to avoid a collision. He doesn't look up though, just steps to the right to go around whatever is in his way. McG steps that way as well and its proof of how rattled their CO is that he tries the other direction as well before he realizes this isn't an accidental collision and finally raises his eyes to see who is purposefully blocking his path. When Adam finally recognizes his medic, he gives the man a nod of acknowledgement and then goes to try and leave again.

Nice try.

"Hold up a second there Top, need to check you out first" McG doesn't wait for him to respond or agree, just grabs his arm and pulls him towards a nearby alcove with a bench.

Dalton's arm muscles vibrate with tension beneath his grip but he doesnt pull away, doesn't fight the direction change or argue that its unnecessary. Weirdly, enough he allows the medic to seat him on the bench and then sits apathetically while the medic gets on with it.

Maybe the man is just too tired to argue, or maybe Top figures the quickest way to continue his mission is just to let the medic get on with it, either way McG will take it.

Top sits rigidly on the edge of the bench as if he refuses to get comfortable, determined that he won't be here long. He stares off into space, ignoring the medic as he flits around doing a cursory inspection of his patient.

His pulse is slightly elevated but that's not entirely surprising given the day they've had. What is surprising is that their leaders usually rock steady hands are trembling beneath his grip on Adam's wrists. When he lets go Dalton quickly closes them into fists and buries them in his lap, continuing to avoid the Medic's eyes.

There are no bruises or cuts on his hands. So he wasn't working a bag ... or someone's face over. That's something to go off at least.

He forces the man to take some deep breaths. Nodding with relief when they sound good.

Dalton apparently picks up on his approval and interprets that as permission to leave.

"Not so fast. I've got a couple more things to check." McG is quick to counter the man's attempted movement with a forceful hand on his shoulder.

He doesn't get a response except for the man slumping back onto the bench and blowing out an audible breath of frustration. Then in an unexpectedly childish move Dalton slouches down, leaning back against the wall as if to emphasize that he might as well get comfortable if this is going to take all day. However his dramatic exaggeration is short lived and the man only lasts a second or two of feigned relaxation before his impatience gets the best of him and he sits back up, leg beginning to bounce in agitation.

McG ignores the theatrics and proceeds with a quick concussion check that satisfies him his leader doesn't have any brain damage, despite the current behaviour that might indicate otherwise.

Top's blood pressure is a little lower than normal. He frowns at that but it isn't entirely unexpected considering the length of their recent mission, and the extended one Dalton just undertook. The man is probably running on fumes by now.

He sighs, not overly happy with the results but not finding anything glaringly wrong either. Feeling the man shift restlessly beneath his hold, he knows it is time to wrap it up. Their leader needs to see Preach.

"He is in room 1032. ...Make sure you eat something"

Before he can finish the sentence Dalton is up and off the bench.

"Seriously top. Eat something. There are muffins in the room" he calls out, yelling futilely at the man's back as Dalton hightails it down the hallway.

He gets a hand gesture in response that could have been an acknowledgment. Or quite possibly a wave of dismissal. McG doesn't care to try to figure out which.

When he looks back at it later, it pains him to admit that Dalton fooled him. He bought the act hook line and sinker. It's embarrassing, but he can't deny that Top would have gotten away with it thanks to to dark clothes and pure stubbornness and possibly some super human ability to regulate his own vitals. Honestly he wouldn't actually put it past the man to have figured out how to do that to help him pass a medical check up.

Dalton is fond of reminding his team that emotions and mistakes often go hand in hand.

That assessment rings true here because as far as McG can figure, it was Top's brief outburst of frustration that did him in. The man's dramatic slump back against the very white wall was the brief tactical error that ruined his otherwise masterful performance.

Its the resulting streak of fresh blood starkly evident against the white paint that catches McG's eye just before Dalton finishes his escape. The medic stares at the undeniable evidence disbelievingly, mind re-running all of the tests he just ran and coming to the only possible conclusion. His stomach drops but then he manages to call out just in time.

"Stop!"

His angry shout catches Dalton just before the smaller man can disappear around the corner. He sees his CO's body language stiffen as he realizes he is busted and yet Adam still makes one more attempt to play it off and turns to face the medic with an innocent expression.

When McG points to the traitorous red mark on the wall Dalton gives up on that gig. Expression hardening into a defiant stare. Daring him to question. To scold.

McG just takes a deep breath. Reminding himself to pick his battles.

Dalton isn't going to get the fight that maybe he wants. That won't get either of them anywhere. Except maybe thrown out of the hospital for shouting the way this day has gone.

So instead he just motions to the bench. If there is any doubt that Dalton didn't know what he was hiding that goes out the window when he gives in without protest and silently resumes his spot on the bench.

Apparently silent is the name of the game so he just motions for Dalton to lift his shirt. Now with that the gig is up Adam doesn't work as hard to hide it and McG can see the movement causes him some discomfort. When the shirt finally lifts it reveals a hastily applied bandage over his midsection that has bled through. The medic is one hundred percent certain he won't like what is underneath but he needs to know so he carefully peels back the gauze and wrappings.

Jesus.

The man had been shot.

Unfucking believable

McG takes several deep breaths As he feels his blood pressure rise.

He actually believes it easier than he wishes he did. Damnit Dalton.

He takes another couple breaths because the first few don't seem to have actually done anything.

Of course he had been shot. And of course he hadn't said anything. And probably not been intending to say anything anytime soon.

If there was any doubt about what he had been up to over the last few hours, it's gone.

He gives up on the deep breathing and tries counting backwards from 10 in an effort to not give his leader a good shake and maybe a long scolding. A tiny, still rational, part of his brain knows that won't help right now so he settles for a few internal expletives that make him feel better if nothing else. Then in preaches honor he says a few prayers for patience. Maybe they will cancel each other out. When he no longer feels the urge to strangle his CO he manages to spit out his first question in a voice that hopefully sounds semi-calm.

"How long ago?"

"2 hours."

"You clean it?"

"Yes."

Dalton's answers are calm and succinct. Like he is doing an after action report for a thoroughly uneventful mission.

The best McG can manage in response to such blatant lack of care is a non-committal "hmmm" while he takes a closer look at the wound.

It actually isn't too bad which is a minor miracle for Dalton. Normally when he is hiding an injury its way worse than this. In this case it's a through and through and right above his hip, just an inch away from missing him altogether but also an inch or two away from being way worse. The medic can tell at a glance that it hasn't hit anything vital but it still has to hurt like a bitch. McG almost is impressed by Dalton's ability to hide it during his exam. Almost. He must have moved so carefully. Breathed so carefully so as not to give it away. Then again maybe the man was just numb right now. Or a feeling a completely different type of pain so vast and so expansive that this didn't even register on his radar.

Still it would need a proper clean out. And stitches. He knows it. Dalton knows it.

But it could wait.

He rechecks the man's vitals. They are steady enough. Adam doesn't appear to have lost too much blood thanks to somewhat effective self first aid.

He studies his CO and for the first time Adam actually met his eyes. The pain there is devastating and it isn't physical. It's speaks to the fear that your best friend might never explode a weird colour smoothie in the kitchen again. The idea that he might never offer a sage if somewhat confusing piece of advice when you least wanted it but probably most needed it. The knowledge that there won't be a very necessary calming presence the next time tempers rise or egos clash. The inconceivable truth that the unofficial father of their team won't be skyping his kids again at their pre-set daily time and even worse might never go home to them ever again.

By rights he should drag Dalton's sorry, lying, shot butt over to the emergency department and get him looked at. It's the smart, by the book decision he should make.

But sometimes in battle, a medic has to make operational decisions that a doctor in a hospital with all the resources in the world would never do. Like the book might tell you you should keep someone still and apply pressure, and yet the bullets whizzing by your head and the lack of cover say otherwise. And no where in any medical handbook does it suggest sticking a straw in someone's chest but on the other hand oxygen really is kind of important and sometimes your teammates prefer to be able to breathe when their lung collapses.

Being a medic is constantly making those kind of hard choices in less than optimal circumstances that have real consequences for your friends.

Right now Dalton needs to see Preach more than he needs the wound treated.

McG's decision is anything but textbook, probably way less than optimal, but it's the right one in his book.

He fixes Dalton to the spot with a glare that would make his mom proud, it promises severe consequences should he try to make a run for it. The man seems to respect the unspoken threat because he shifts his weight uncomfortably but stays put while McG bustles around a few cabinets scrounging for supplies. When he returns he makes quick work of bandaging the wound and then stares Top down again " This is will need to be changed in a few hours and to get stitched up."

He gets hum that he takes as an acknowledgment. And then the man is pulling his shirt back down. Taking off down the hallway with a renewed purpose.

"Dalton"

Adam freezes again….

"You get him?"

Top turns slightly to face the medic and after a long second he gives a sharp curt nod in response to the question. McG can't decipher the expression that accompanies it, some combination of sadness or satisfaction playing across Adam's face, or maybe just emptiness. Whatever it is it vanishes quickly as the man pivots and continues off down the hall in search of his friend.

The medic is left standing in the hallway. Feeling a little bit better, and also a little bit worse. His job is done now. He has checked in on everyone, yet he still finds himself one person short and it's the one who he knows he can't do anything to help.

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McG hesitates again at the threshold of the room. Pausing this time to study his handiwork on the board.

Ezekiel **"Preach"** Carter

That's better.

Smiling with satisfaction, he re-enters the room just in time to catch Dalton downing the cold cup of coffee in one swig. Amir meets his eyes and they both share a knowing grin. That coffee is probably ice cold and disgusting, but in the end Dalton was back to drink it. McG's optimism had paid off. Preach would have called it faith and would have been proud. Actually Preach probably would have told him never to count Dalton or his stomach out.

The imagined "Preachism" breaks whatever wall he had built and he finally turns to look at his friend. Not at the patient and his injuries, or the monitors and machines surrounding him. Actually at his friend, at their teammate, their rock.

And he is still there. Beneath all that crap. All those tubes and wires. He is still there. McG is all of a sudden more certain of it than ever. He feels it, the man's presence in the room completing the team. They are all back together again and without a doubt he knows the man would know the exact words for this situation to say to comfort the team. The thought makes him smile

and it catches the other's attention so he figures he might as well share with the class.

"You know he would have something to say right now…. Something like McGuire baby, you know it's always darkest before the dawn"

He can almost here Preach's deep gravelly voice saying it along with him.

"Trials are the precursors to triumph" Amir joins in with his best imagined Preachism as well. Moving from his chair, he comes to join the rest of his team in the circle around the bed

Jaz, not to be outdone attempts her own, piping into the conversation with "the river of life runs through rapids we call adversity."

Out of the corner of his eye, McG notices the sniper drift over to stand beside Dalton who has taken a seat next to the bed. Her hand reaches out to rest gently, almost affectionately on Adam's shoulder. Pretenses are gone. Forgiveness and something more unspoken but evident in the contact. McG raises an eyebrow when Dalton allows the touch, even leans in slightly towards it.

Damn! it looked like he was going to owe Preach 20 bucks. They all knew it was inevitable but McG had put money on not until after this deployment. Should have known better than to bet against the house, or Preach in this case.

McG pulls his attention away from the pair and shakes his head "man where does he even come up with this stuff" he asks fondly.

Amir is quick to answer that one too "Certainly not from books"

Dalton breaks his silence, fondly weighing in his agreement "No, he is tapped into something else entirely." Their leader reaches out to take Preacher's hand, grasping it tightly as if he can tap into it as well. Or maybe just hoping to tether his friend to his world through sheer force of will.

'Show me a man who believes in something greater….' Amir trails off, unable to finish. Turning his face away from the team for a moment.

But McG knows where he is going with that. He remembers going out on Amir's first mission way back at the beginning of this deployment. More specifically he vividly remembers putting his foot in his mouth asking Amir how he could be a Muslim in their line of work. It feels like a lifetime ago. Yet he remembers what Preach said like it was yesterday as well as the exasperated look sent in his direction. The older man had managed to bail him out and diffuse the situation and make their new teammate feel accepted.

 _Show me a man who believes in something greater…._

"…. That's a man I'll fight beside." He finishes it off for Amir, and for Preach, with conviction and with hope.

Because they would fight beside him. Come what may, he is confident their team will face it together.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

 _That's all folks. Apologies for the long wait. I definitely was a little blocked on the last episode(s) and had pretty much given up on finishing it. Thanks for all the reviews and kind prods to finish it and a special shout out to burnmedown whose review kind of kicked me in the butt because I have been reading and enjoying their seal team stories so much. And once I finally got going… it just kept going. So hopefully this long one makes up for the equally long wait and provides a little closure._


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